


creatures of the wind

by maunwocha



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: A different kind of apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Background Relationships, Becho midgame, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Collared John Murphy, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dom/sub Undertones, Ensemble Cast, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lone Wanderer Bellamy, Magic, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Multi, Murphy is in Trouble, Mutation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rescue Missions, Slavery, Substance Abuse, Suicide Attempt, Surprise Pairing, Unconventional vampires, Unhealthy Relationships, Wasteland Gang King Roan, Witch Echo, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maunwocha/pseuds/maunwocha
Summary: Bellamy has been separated from his friends and his sister for months now, alone with his dog Picasso and searching fruitlessly on the surface of an Earth he has always been told is completely inhospitable to humans. Only it isn't inhospitable; the Ark was wrong, or lying. The environment itself might not be dangerous, but the witches, vampires, and violent biker gangs that roam the desert mean there's still plenty around that Bellamy needs to watch out for. When he saves "King" Roan's life and his plans to rescue his missing people are suddenly thrust into the realm of the possible, Bellamy finally gets his chance to face the mistakes of his past and recover some of what he lost.Well, he can at least try.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Echo, Bellamy Blake/John Murphy, Echo & John Murphy (The 100), John Murphy/Roan (The 100)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. Here's this, a different kind of apocalypse AU with maybe a little bit of magic and vampires???? I don't know, I'm just having fun with this one. We're gonna get a little loose, we're gonna get a little weird, it's gonna be a good time. I'll be updating the tags as I go and if I miss anything, please let me know!
> 
> title from Wild Is The Wind by Nina Simone

The world outside of the Ark is wild, and big. For a hundred years, the people living in the bunker believed that the surface was destroyed, changed so dramatically from the radiation of bombs that it couldn’t support any life at all. Life is greater than that, though. Earth is. All those scientists and politicians down there could never understand that. How arrogant they were. Life wasn't snuffed out on the surface, it just became meaner and fiercer. The world of before may be gone, but a new world has grown to take its place, a world more dangerous and deadly than those small, underground people could ever imagine. Human beings mutated into monsters, imbued with unbelievable powers. Dangers no one ever could have prepared them for, in a world ready to chew them all up and spit them out, always hungry.

Dusty wind whips at Bellamy’s face, and he grunts, stopping to wipe the debris from his eyes. Somewhere beyond the clouds of dirt that stretch from the ground straight up forever, the sun is setting, casting the world in a fiery orange light. It might be beautiful, if Bellamy could see it. Maybe Jasper had the right idea, with his goggles. Picasso barks at his feet, curious about the holdup, but waits patiently for him. When he pulls his fingers from his eyes, he peers forward, cupping his hands around his temples.

It’s impossible to see anything when the desert gets like this, all windy and angry, at once expansive and huge and also only the few feet of sand visible in front of him. Didn’t matter so much when they were all on the bus, but that was weeks ago now, maybe months. It's hard to keep track. So much has happened, since then. Every kid Bellamy left the Ark with is now dead or missing, along with the bus, and he has no idea where to find them. Finn is dead. All that’s left is to wander the desert alone, searching.

Sounds a little pathetic phrased that way, but it’s not like there’s anything better to do. He and Finn found Octavia again, but then they were separated again only a few days after Finn died, so it’s been just Bellamy and Picasso ever since then. At least he knows where Octavia is, or where she told him to find her once he gets their friends back. She and Luna would be waiting for them, in Luna’s haven to the east.

Problem is, there wasn’t much of a trail to follow. All he has is a short note and a sketchy map which has so far proved useless. If Clarke were here, she would know how to read it, but she’s gone. They’re all gone.

His world has changed so much in just a few months. Before, he thought there was nothing on the surface, and then that was wrong. Before, he had Octavia, and Clarke, and Finn. Now he has nothing. Someone took his friends, and then Luna took his sister.

Bellamy doesn't know for sure that someone has the 48 because he doesn't know what happened after he got separated from them. Raven had the idea of burning half the gas from the bus, protecting them from the surface people attacking them in a ring of fire, and that had worked for a while. Finn and Bellamy had lit the opposite sides at the same time, intending to leap through before the sides could connect. But Bellamy was attacked, and Finn chose to stay outside of the ring to save him. The bus drove away. They never saw it again. Finn tracked them for as long as he could, but...

“Stop,” Bellamy mutters aloud to himself, pushing Finn out of his mind once more. Finn can’t help him find somewhere for him and Picasso to wait out the storm, and he did what he could to help him find the bus. Now he’s gone, and Bellamy is here, in the dust.

Something metal flashes in the sun just for a moment, so fast he almost doesn't see it, surprising him. He speeds up a bit, jogging forward until he can see the bumper of a small vehicle with four enormous tires, decked out in chains and scrap metal, parked outside an old gas station building. Shelter, but there’s someone else here. Shit.

“What do you think, Picasso?” Bellamy asks, crouching to run his fingers through her golden fur. She snuffles happily, nosing his arm for more affection. If there is a higher power looking out for him, then she definitely sent him Picasso. She’s the best thing to happen to Bellamy, maybe the only good thing, since Octavia left.

She whines.

Bellamy nods, sighing. “Probably better get you out of the dust, huh, baby?”

He draws his hatchet from his belt, leaving his rifle hanging from his back. There’s only seven bullets left, and he has to save them for emergencies. Better to go in with his axe, take care of things quietly if he has to take care of anything at all.

Crouching, Bellamy crosses the cracked blacktop coated in layers of packed desert dust, dotted by cacti and shrubs, stopping when he reaches the door.

Something metallic inside clatters to the ground, followed by muffled swearing and thumping, sounds of struggle.

“Stay,” he commands Picasso quietly, making sure she’s behind the wall and out of the wind before reaching for the rusty doorknob and opening the door slowly, creeping inside.

When the door closes behind him, musty darkness swallows the space once more. The windows, all broken, are boarded over from the inside, and filth and trash cover the floor. It’s pretty nasty in here, but it would work until the storm passes. Another clatter, and a shout, this time. Right. Gotta make it safe for Picasso.

Before he can move further, there’s another shout and a man goes flying across the room, sliding on the floor until he’s just in front of Bellamy, pinned beneath one of the scaly, irradiated bobcats that prowl the brush. A beat passes for Bellamy to process the sight before he lunges forward, swinging his hatchet into and up the big cat’s throat, spraying the man beneath with its black blood.

“Fuck!” the man bellows, startling away from Bellamy while also trying to push himself away from the rapidly dying bobcat. Under all the blood, he’s got long hair that has fallen into his face, which is hawkish and handsome. “Shit, where did you come from?”

“Um,” Bellamy says with a scratchy voice, offering the man his hand. “Outside?”

Rising to his full height, he’s actually much taller than Bellamy. A flicker of fear sparks in his belly, just for a second, before the guy starts laughing. “Alright, that’s fine. Thanks for the rescue, kid. Got a name?”

Bellamy nods. “Bellamy.”

The man narrows his eyes, still smiling. “Just Bellamy, that’s all?”

“Bellamy Blake,” Bellamy adds begrudgingly. This guy gives him the creeps, just a little.

“Pleasure to meet you,” the man says, offering one of his hands. Bellamy takes it for a shake. “I’m Roan.”

And this is how Bellamy discovers that the man he just saved is none other than the king of the wasteland himself, the new leader of Azgeda, this area’s largest gang. Bellamy doesn’t interact with other people all that often out here, but when he does, they all talk about Roan. Rumor is he killed his own mother to take control, and that nothing makes him happier than getting high and getting into fights. Two separate groups he's met have reported to Bellamy they were fleeing carnage caused by Roan and his fighters.

There’s a pause, and Bellamy isn’t sure what’s going to happen next. Roan moves behind the counter, roots around for a moment before retrieving a bottle of clear liquid, near full. Should Bellamy leave? Offer to share the shelter until the storm passes?

“You know,” Roan says, nonchalant, cutting off Bellamy’s worrying. “I kinda like you. You should come over to my place, have a drink with me.”

He holds up the bottle and gives it a shake. Roan doesn’t seem like a menacing gang leader. Sure, he’s enormous, and there’s a sort of thrumming, lingering violence that seems to simmer on his skin. It takes until this moment for Bellamy to realize he seems _lonely_. Roan speaks like someone who hasn’t had an honest conversation with someone in weeks, like he’s eager to make a new friend.

It feels too mean to say no, and besides, wherever Roan is staying has to be nicer than this dump. Might be good to have a king for a buddy, seeing as everyone else has been perfectly useless on his quest to find Clarke and the rest of the 48. With Roan’s gang and resources, maybe…

Bellamy holds Picasso in his lap as they zoom across the desert in Roan’s vehicle, leaving the howling storm behind them. He came there for the stashed alcohol, he informs Bellamy, shouting over the motor and the tires chewing up the ground. As the light dies with the setting sun, the desert turns blue, pierced only by their bright headlights cutting through the dark.

They approach a small cluster of buildings just as night falls, torches and oil barrels of fire illuminating the compound. Before the Fall, this place might have been some sort of ranch. Now, it is Azgeda, the closest thing the wasteland has to a city, other than maybe Polis to the west.

Guards raise the scrap metal gates as they approach, and the closer they get to the big house, the more Bellamy understands Roan’s strangeness from before. When he finally kills the engine, there are three people waiting for him, asking a million questions. Each of them is collared with brutal-looking metal devices, red indicator lights blinking underneath all of their chins.

“Hansel, shhh,” Roan shushes one of them, taking his face in his hands. “Go make sure the water heater is running? So I can wash all this shit off me, huh?”

Hansel and the others nod, scurrying away to do his bidding. He sighs deeply, then waves Bellamy forward with him, opening the French doors of the ranch house.

It’s surprisingly… cozy, inside. String lights on wires secured to the ceiling illuminate the space, presumably powered by generators somewhere, filling the big room with a hazy, colorful glow. Bellamy certainly wasn’t expecting Roan to fill his “palace” with tasteful interior design, and not just shit from the old world either but things that actually go together, items that give off some impression of a style. What style, he couldn’t say. No more words for such things exist to anyone anymore, and certainly not to Bellamy, but it’s definitely more clean lines and tasteful silhouettes than he expected from a man like Roan.

“Take your boots off, if you don’t mind,” Roan instructs him, toeing his own boots off and striding into the home without looking back. “Picasso is fine to be in here, just… don’t let her on any furniture.”

The entryway opens up into a decently large room, with a sofa and chairs around a small table on one end, and a ritzy-looking bar at the other. Ritzy as it is, it also decorated with what appears to be several human skulls serving as the base for candles, dried red candle wax dripping macabrely into the empty eye sockets.

“She’ll behave,” Bellamy assures him, shifting uncomfortably. The cleanness of everything here really rubs him the wrong way, especially in contrast to the skulls and Roan’s own filthy appearance, but he unties his boots and comes to join Roan in a small bar area, perching gently on one tall stool.

“Johnny!” Roan calls from the bar, slipping out of his armor and jacket and hanging them on the wall hook behind him. Bellamy watches him gather ingredients for his cocktail like he didn’t nearly die earlier today. He almost never got to have another drink. It feels like a routine, something Roan has done a thousand times before. “Daddy’s home!”

Bellamy raises his eyebrows a little at that, because of all things, Roan certainly didn’t strike him as a father. If it’s unfair of him to think so, he doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because he can hear the clinking of metal coming from the other room. His stomach twists, drops down to the floor.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Murphy, _alive_ , collared like a dog and half-naked, shuffling into the door frame on battered bare feet. Last time Bellamy saw him, he and Clarke were banishing him into the desert, leaving him behind while the rest of them drove away on the bus. His hair is long and tangled, and he looks sick he’s so pale, worse than Bellamy has ever seen him. From his collar, there hangs a heavy metal chain, leading back into the room behind him, attached to something Bellamy can’t see from here.

Fury roars alight inside of him at once, but Murphy catches his eye desperately and gives the tiniest shake of his head. _Don’t let on that we know each other_ , it says, but Bellamy shuts his eyes. No. He doesn’t like that. He needs to get up right now, demand that Roan take that fucking thing off his neck, get him some food for fuck’s sake. Guilt swells in him, dark and bubbling.

He has no right to want to protect Murphy now, not after what he did, not if it meant Murphy ended up here, looking like this. Angry air rushes from his nose and Bellamy opens his eyes once more, forcing a neutral expression onto his face. Murphy is clearly in danger. He won’t make it worse.

Roan lifts his head from his cocktail and smiles at Murphy. “There you are,” he says, some approximation of tender. “Don’t be shy, come say hello to our new friend. Sit down.”

Murphy steps forward at once, though he looks apprehensive, coming to settle gently on the bar stool across from Bellamy. It feels like he’s breathing too fast, but his head is spinning at how close his knees are to touching Murphy’s, how near they are to each other right now after months apart, unsure if the other was even alive. And now, to reunite under these circumstances…

“Hello,” Murphy says quietly, not looking at him.

This makes Roan stop what he’s doing, set his shaker down and look at Murphy. “That wasn’t very polite, Johnny. This man here, his name is Bellamy…” he takes his lime knife and waves it around in the air, searching. Threatening?

“Blake,” Bellamy supplies in a huff.

“Bellamy Blake!” Roan repeats, smiling his terrible grin, spinning the knife in his hand. “That’s right. Bellamy Blake saved my life, which is why I’m here making him a drink. You could show some respect.”

Murphy’s eyes slide up from the floor and snap to Bellamy’s. The expression there so severe it knocks the breath out of him for a second, an unspoken, burning hatred that leaps and sparks behind Murphy’s big blue eyes. Murphy _hates_ him, Bellamy realizes. He hates him for bringing Roan back here. Hates Roan. Bellamy’s stomach twists anew.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Murphy tries again, offering Bellamy a shaky little smile instead. It isn’t a snarl, though he’d be entitled to one right now. No, instead it looks like he’s genuinely trying to perform this polite cheerfulness for Roan, obeying his every word. Anger leaps like fire in Bellamy once more.

Roan hums and smiles, taking Murphy by the jaw with one hand. “Much better, thank you. Good boy,” he coos, pulling Murphy’s face across the counter to plant a firm kiss into his mouth. Bellamy just barely stops himself from scoffing, has to tighten his hands into fists in Picasso’s fur to keep from leaping across the bar and beating Roan to death.

He’s going to be sick. Bellamy wants to cry. He should have just let Roan be killed, but then what would happen to Murphy? Bellamy wouldn’t have even known he was alive. Now, at least, maybe he can get Murphy out of here. That is, if he even wants to go. The thought makes Bellamy frown, but clearly whatever is going on here between Murphy and Roan is complicated, more than he can know or understand from just a few minutes together.

He has to hold onto the fact that Murphy hid their past knowledge of each other from Roan as a sign of something, like maybe Murphy doesn’t want Roan to think they know each other so he won’t suspect Bellamy for breaking him loose, obliviously letting him stick around to get the chance. It feels like a Murphy plan. A Bellamy-and-Murphy plan.

“Well,” Roan continues casually, releasing Murphy. “You’re welcome to stay the night, after your drink. Gotta assume you don’t have anywhere else to go,” he says, pouring what seems like quite a lot of drink into a glass for Bellamy and sliding it his way.

“I appreciate that,” he says honestly, taking a swig. Shit, that’s pretty tasty. He peers into the glass at the deep pink, reddish drink inside, swirling it around.

Roan takes a big gulp of his own drink, smacking his lips and sighing. “Hits the spot after a long day in the wasteland, no?”

Bellamy nods, gives Roan a tight smile. Is this normal? Is he supposed to act normal? How? Murphy is staring at him, not constantly, just whenever Roan isn’t looking. Palms getting clammy, Bellamy wipes his hands on his pants and takes another drink. As he sets his glass down this time, Murphy catches his eyes, widens his own almost imperceptibly. _Don’t drink that_. Bellamy puts both hands in his lap, clasps them together.

He’s too obvious. Roan notices him take his hands away and narrows his eyes over the rim of his own glass, assessing. “What is it? Don’t like your drink?”

“No, it’s delicious,” Bellamy replies quickly, trying to ease the tension locking up his shoulders. “I just got super tired all of the sudden.”

“Mm,” Roan acknowledges, taking another drink. “Understandable, all those heroics probably took it out of you,” he jokes, winking and clapping Bellamy on the shoulder. It’s a bit too rough to really be friendly.

He stares at Bellamy then, still smiling, eyes sharp. An uneasiness hangs in the air like steam, hot and oppressive, pushing in from all sides. The knife he’d used to slice the limes is next to Roan’s hand on the counter, and Bellamy fights hard not to let his eyes flicker to it, not wanting to give the king any ideas. Murphy is motionless like a statue, eyes trained straight in front of him and focused on nothing in particular. He might be a little drugged right now, Bellamy realizes. His pupils are blasted.

“Well,” Roan says, breaking the tension by setting down his drink and clapping his hands, rubbing them together with a friendly laugh. “I’m sure we can fix something up for you. Here,” he pauses, reaching into his pocket for a ring of keys and striding to the other side of the bar. “Johnny, why don’t you take Bellamy to where he’ll be staying tonight? Get him some extra linens from the closet while you’re at it, I’m gonna go take a shower.”

He instructs Murphy in all of this while he detaches the chain from his collar and tosses it back into the other room. Roan’s bedroom, if Bellamy had to guess. A wave of nausea rolls through him once more.

Murphy whimpers when the weight of the chain is no longer pulling at his neck and back, stretches a little before stepping to the floor.

“Follow me,” he instructs Bellamy quietly, stepping past both him and Roan and slipping down the narrow hallway at the end of the room.

Bellamy starts to follow, but Roan grabs his arm, stopping him with a strong grip. Picasso rises to her feet as well, alert. Blood rushes in Bellamy’s ears.

He’s certain Roan is about to confront him, expose him somehow, impossibly, but instead he points to Bellamy’s drink. “You gonna take that with you?”

Bellamy laughs through the rush of relieved breath that leaves him, shakes his head. Jesus, he just wants the drink. “No, man, you go for it.”

He walks from the room in large strides, Picasso close at his heels, eager to get Murphy alone for a second so he can ask what in the fuck is going on around here. The image of those three people in their metal collars off providing Roan his hot water haunts Bellamy, but he shakes the thought out. It doesn’t matter what he’s doing, it can be anything so long as it keeps him in the other room and away from Murphy long enough for Bellamy to make sure he’s alright.

When he enters the modest guest bedroom, Murphy is stretching sheets across the bed for him. All he has on are faded blue briefs and a torn, loose t-shirt with an old cartoon character on the front that at least looks clean. His skin looks uneven, almost translucent in the light, which appears to be a camping lantern hung from a hook in the ceiling. All Bellamy really wants to see is his throat, catch a glimpse of whether or not there’s scars left there from the hanging, evidence left behind from the last time they saw each other. Roan’s collar obscures his view.

Murphy startles at his footfalls, then recovers with a sigh, finishing making the bed with shaking hands. “Fancy meeting you here,” he grumbles, still not looking at Bellamy. His eyes look a little watery, maybe.

This infuriates Bellamy. He presses forward into Murphy’s space and is shocked when Murphy reacts immediately, backing away until he is flat against the wall. Shit.

“Murphy, what is this?” Bellamy asks quietly, stepping away with his hands up in surrender. “Are you alright? What’s with all the secrecy? I mean Christ, think about this from my perspective.”

“I know how it looks,” Murphy snaps, voice watery. When he looks at Bellamy, that fire from before is there. “And it didn’t start out this way, you know? But I needed help, and every next thing didn’t seem so different from the thing before, right? Until… until it’s all so different you can’t recognize anything anymore.”

His voice changes toward the end of the sentence, trailing off like he forgot what he was saying. Trying to bring him back, Bellamy takes Murphy’s hands in both of his gently. Fuck, he’s freezing. Murphy jumps at first, but lets him touch, closes his eyes. A fat tear slips down his cheek, and Murphy lets it fall.

“I’ll get you out of here,” Bellamy whispers, stepping closer. “I can help you, if you want me to.”

Murphy sniffles and shakes his head, withdrawing his hands sharply. “I can’t just leave. I’m not the person you hanged,” he hisses, bitterness in his voice at the mention of Bellamy’s betrayal. “You can’t help me with anything, Bellamy. I have to stay.”

Bellamy shakes his head, brushes his hair out of his face in exasperation. “Why?” he rasps, voice breaking embarrassingly.

Murphy opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Roan shouts from the living room. “Johnny, come clean up in here!”

Bellamy watches in disbelief as Murphy pushes off the wall and walks into the other room without a single word, like Bellamy isn’t even there. For a second he expects Murphy to pop his head back in, say he’ll be right back, but he won’t be back. The bed is made, so what reason would he have to come back? Bellamy just stands there for a while, unsure what should be his next move. Maybe while Roan was asleep he could snoop around the property, but until then? Try not to vomit and make sure Picasso is doing alright, he supposes.

A blend of curiosity and boredom overcomes him eventually, and he creeps back down the hallway to peer around the corner. If Roan catches him, he’ll say he got thirsty or something. From where he stands, Bellamy can see Roan’s head and his shoulders from over the back of the sofa, moving slowly. Soft little gasps and pants echo back to Bellamy every now and then, so he has to assume Murphy is beneath Roan on the couch. The chain rattles where it slides on the floor, now trailing into the living room.

Was Murphy always collared, unless Roan needed his help? Was he allowed to leave this house? Did he want to? What happened to him, in the time they were apart, that changed him this way? Tears spring to Bellamy's eyes.

His wondering is interrupted by Roan moaning loudly, tossing his freshly clean long hair back and rising into better view. When he smiles, his mouth is red, red, red, and dripping.

Bellamy snaps back around the corner and rushes back to his room as silently as he can, shutting the door behind him and leaning heavily against it once he does, sighing.

That wasn’t... blood, right? The drink Roan made him earlier was sort of that color, and it’s dark in the house. Maybe he just got too drunk and spilled on himself. Surely that was not Murphy’s blood in Roan’s mouth just now, or this is much, much worse than Bellamy thought.

He falls asleep with Picasso next to him under the blankets, huddled in close to him. Getting a few hours can’t hurt, but Bellamy won’t let her out of his sight, not in this place. He made a mistake letting Murphy out of his sight, same with Octavia, and Clarke, and the rest of the delinquents. Finn. He won’t make the same mistake again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you think by leaving a kudos and/or comment!!! or you can DM me on twitter @ maunwocha :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a long day. Bellamy is in a whole new world, again, and there’s no breaks. He’s inside of a sleeping monster with his dog, across the dinner table from a drugged-out slaver king at the end of the world. Somewhere in this big house, the back of Murphy’s collar is locked with a padlock, and the key to that padlock may or may not be tingling against Bellamy’s thigh right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome back! I am here again with this strange tale, I hope you enjoy this installment! And if you do, please tell me so in the comments! <3

Bellamy does not sleep well. Whatever he had a few sips of in that drink, it gives him crazy, horrible visions that pull him relentlessly in and out of consciousness for a few hours. He fights with it, never really falling deeply asleep enough to grasp any of the imagery. When he is awake, he can hear Murphy and Roan in the room that shares a wall with his, which means when he’s pulled back into sleep his dreams become more and more sexual.

Finally, he falls fully into unconsciousness.

_He was covered in blood, skin slick with it, Murphy writhing beneath him. Both of Bellamy’s hands were wrapped firmly around his throat, but Murphy didn’t look scared, not like he did when Bellamy hanged him. Instead, his pink mouth was parted gently in a moan, and his blue eyes were boring into Bellamy, lids heavy with desire. Murphy arched his back and his hand jumped out to grab Bellamy’s wrist, gripping tightly. ‘More, Bellamy,’ he moaned, their blood-soaked bodies smacking together. ‘Bellamy…’_

“Bellamy!” Murphy hisses, cold hand at Bellamy’s wrist, shaking him awake.

Bellamy is rock hard under the blanket, alert at once and scrambling to obscure himself somehow, though it quickly becomes obvious there’s no way Murphy did not see his erection while Bellamy was still asleep. Picasso is not in bed, instead backed into the far corner and sitting still, staring at Murphy warily.

“Fuck,” Bellamy groans, ignoring Murphy shushing him. “What’s going on?”

The sun still hasn’t risen, but it’s clearly early morning. “I don’t get much time to myself around here,” Murphy explains quietly, releasing Bellamy and stepping away, pointedly avoiding looking at his crotch. “If you want some answers, now is the only time you’ll get them.”

Bellamy sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Fine, just… give me a second.”

“Meet me by the front doors,” Murphy instructs before slipping silently from the room.

The moment he’s gone, Bellamy groans and presses his hand between his legs, burying his face into the pillow in disgust. He can’t stop thinking about Murphy, hot and wet beneath him, begging for more. It’s extremely likely that Murphy doesn’t care about his stupid penis anyway, and he has no way of knowing what Bellamy was dreaming about, but it feels wrong on every level. Murphy is in trouble. If he could, Bellamy would shower, wash his own thoughts away from himself, but he remembers Hansel and the other two prisoners from when he and Roan arrived here and thinks that would probably feel wrong to him, too.

Murphy is leaned against the counter facing away from Bellamy when he finally calms down enough to walk into the living room, Picasso following close behind. The sight is almost enough to make Bellamy turn right back around, forget the whole thing. He’s still collared and only partially dressed, but at least this thermal shirt is long enough to cover his ass, big on him. Maybe it’s Roan’s. First thing in the morning, and Bellamy is fucking pissed.

Then Murphy hears him and turns around, a chain leash with a leather strap handle attached to his collar.

Bellamy stops in his tracks. “What is that?”

“Shh!” Murphy hisses, padding across the hardwood to grab one of Bellamy’s hands and drag him toward the door. Picasso whines, trailing behind them both. “Look, this is how things work around here. If anyone sees you with me and you’re not holding this, Roan will know. I’m protecting us.”

Bellamy grits his teeth, sighs. “Fine,” he mutters, taking the leather in his hand and squeezing it until his knuckles are white, ignoring the way his heart leaps at Murphy saying ‘us.’

The three of them, Picasso, Bellamy, and Murphy, make their way through Azgeda in the thin, purple light of the early morning, Bellamy’s hand gripping the leather strap tightly the whole time. They cross the muddy paths that cut through clusters of buildings, some new and some old, their way illuminated by the fires burning around the compound. The irony of Picasso trotting next to him happily, free to roam around where she pleases while Murphy is collared at the end of a leash on his other side, is not lost on Bellamy, not one bit. It makes him want to scream, in fact.

“We should be fine to talk out here,” Murphy finally says when they’re a few yards from the big house. “But I won’t tell you everything, and I won’t answer stupid questions.”

“What’s with the leash? I hate this,” Bellamy blurts at once, holding the leather up his hand. “Why can’t we just take a normal walk? Will he hurt you?”

Murphy stops walking, smirking at him. “Bellamy. I _just_ told you I’m not going to answer stupid questions.”

It is a stupid question. It’s a very stupid question, because look at his fucking throat, his clothes, his _feet_ , which are still bare. Bellamy keeps seeing the flash of a bandage at Murphy’s left wrist that he didn’t notice before. That wasn’t there last night, was it? He’s almost certain it wasn’t. Murphy could have done it to himself, but…

“Anyway, you better hurry,” Murphy continues, forcing Bellamy to keep up so he doesn’t pull on the leash. “We have to get back before sunrise.”

Bellamy frowns. “What happens at sunrise? Roan wakes up?”

Murphy snorts, shaking his head. “That’s a funny joke. Roan will drag his ass out of bed at one in the afternoon with a raging hangover, if we’re lucky.”

That actually makes sense; he really wasn’t slowing down last night, and that was just what Bellamy witnessed himself. He basically drank both their cocktails, laced with _something_ , and then who knows what after that. Roan’s red, dripping mouth flashes in his mind, but also the musical little moans Murphy was making beneath him, the sounds coming from Roan’s room last night. Bellamy’s cheeks burn. He knows he needs to, but he can’t bring himself to ask about the drink, the red. He shouldn’t have seen it in the first place.

“Echo comes at sunrise,” Murphy continues, his voice taking on a strange quality. “And I… don’t want you to see.”

“Who or what is Echo?” Bellamy asks, confused. “Do they hurt you?”

Murphy shakes his head. “Jesus, can you stop asking me that? No, she… Echo is good. I like her.”

Bellamy exhales through his nose in frustration. What is it, then? If she doesn’t hurt him, what doesn’t he want Bellamy to see? God forbid it’s sexual.

This is the worst. He can’t force anything with Murphy, definitely not while they’re both in Azgeda, it doesn’t feel right. Clearly, Murphy doesn’t have a lot of say in what happens to him when Roan’s collar is around his neck. Bellamy can’t just _make_ him trust him, as badly as he wishes he could. He’ll have to earn trust back.

“How did you end up here?” Bellamy settles on at last, cutting right to the point. “What happened to you after we banished you?”

Murphy stares at his feet in the mud. “Wandered on my own, for a while. Couple days, maybe, until some raiders picked me up. They tortured me for three days,” he explains, lifting his sleeves to reveal the scarred skin of his arms, matching rings of twisted flesh around his wrists. There is a fresh bandage there, like Bellamy suspected.

“Murphy,” he breathes in shock before he can stop himself, but is silenced immediately when Murphy shoots him a sharp glare with watery eyes. He’s not finished talking.

“All that blood, my wounds…” Murphy continues, tugging his sleeves back down. “I got really sick. Roan found me, nursed me back to health. Kept me from dying. Took care of me,” he says, fondness undeniable in his tone. “He saved my life, what there was of it to save.”

 _Ooh_ , that makes Bellamy mad. The heat of his anger just distracts him from cold shame, though; the knowledge that he was directly responsible for putting Murphy in Roan’s path in the first place sends a sickening, creeping chill through his veins. Bellamy might not have tortured him himself, but he _is_ at fault for making Murphy suffer first, for making him isolated and vulnerable enough for Roan to prey on. Every mark on his body is Bellamy's fault.

“Yeah, and now he’s got you at the end of a leash! I treat Picasso better than Roan treats you,” Bellamy snaps. Murphy already warned him, but he can’t help himself. He can’t stand listening to Murphy praise this asshole when it’s his rules forcing Bellamy to treat him like an animal right now. “That’s not the whole story and you know it. Why won’t you leave with me, Murphy?”

They’ve stopped walking now, turned to face each other in a lonely corner near the outer wall. Most of the people who must live here are still asleep, save for the guards in their towers, so they’re alone. Picasso has kept her distance the whole walk, keeping her eye on Bellamy but refusing to get too close to Murphy.

“I just _can’t_ ,” Murphy insists, as frustrating as ever. “And I wish you would accept that answer.”

“Well, I don’t want to,” Bellamy says stubbornly, throwing the leash to the ground like an overgrown child. “Is it so impossible to believe I care about what happens to you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Murphy responds simply, blinking at him. His face and voice are carefully neutral, anger instead seeping out of his skin like steam. “You fucking idiot. That last time I saw you, you left me to die in the desert.”

Bellamy shakes his head firmly, jaw clenched. “Not to die.”

Murphy scoffs. “Oh, shut up. Come on, Bellamy, you can’t just admit it? Even now? You knew exactly what you were doing. Stop pretending.”

His mouth is open, like he’s going to keep talking, but he shuts it. There’s a strange energy around him, like he might hit Bellamy. Murphy doesn’t have to keep talking _or_ hit him for Bellamy to take that thought to its natural conclusion: it was Bellamy that sentenced Murphy to death, and it was Roan that saved him from it. For him to just show up, after all this time, and decide he doesn’t like how Murphy is living, try to make him leave, is… well. Bellamy is an idiot.

This isn’t a rescue mission, at least not one to rescue Murphy. Murphy does not view him that way, not anymore. He might even view him as a villain.

Bellamy deflates completely, shoulders slumping. He stoops down, taking the leash out of the mud and brushing it off with his other hand. Standing there, holding Murphy at the end of this chain, he can’t help but remember the lynching. Murphy’s wild, wide eyes, the blood dripping down his face from being beaten. How he begged and pleaded with Bellamy like he was the only one there, like it was just the two of them. That awful noise Murphy made in his throat when he dropped, scream cut off.

Bellamy kicked the crate. He kicked the crate and then he just stood there, frozen, even though he regretted it instantly. It was Finn that rushed in and caught Murphy’s legs, lowered him down, took the gag from his mouth. He remembers the way Finn’s fingers brushed Murphy’s bloody, sweaty hair from his face, how bizarrely tender it seemed. Murphy had pressed his face into Finn’s touch, eyes closed with relief.

It still hurts too much to think of Finn. “I’m sorry,” Bellamy murmurs, twisting the leather in his hands. “I’m sorry, Murphy.”

“Time’s up,” Murphy says, like he didn’t even hear Bellamy, pointing at the horizon. Sure enough, the sky is blossoming pink, a hint at the sun’s arrival. “How about you answer some of my questions on the way back?”

Murphy is refusing to engage with him emotionally. Well, fine then. Bellamy will answer his questions. He owes him that much, he supposes. Bellamy nods silently, and they walk together back to Roan’s palace.

“What happened to the princess, and all the rest?” Murphy questions him. “Why are you alone?”

He’s expecting the question, but that doesn’t mean it stings any less. Mention of Clarke specifically makes his heart twist. This reunion with Murphy has been like a grand tour of all of Bellamy’s greatest fuckups, relentlessly smacking his face.

“We must have driven into occupied territory,” Bellamy says, quiet. “We fell under attack. Clarke and Finn tried to talk to them, but everything got… fucked up. We tried to set a trap for them to defend the bus, and it worked, but Finn and I got separated from everyone else. We got left behind.”

There’s a taut silence between them, then, because Bellamy has mentioned being separated with Finn, and yet there is no Finn here. He can already see the pain in Murphy’s expression, knows that he knows what comes next. Maybe Murphy is thinking about Finn holding him up for air, too.

“We spent every second after that trying to find them, track them down. Found Octavia again, and her girlfriend,” he continues. “Finn, he… it was bad, for him, losing everyone. He changed. Executed a guy in cold blood, killed a bunch of people who couldn’t even help us.”

Murphy is shocked. “Finn?”

Bellamy nods miserably. “I know. It was bad,” he repeats.

“Well, don’t leave me in suspense,” Murphy half-jokes, sounding a little nervous.

“He’s dead,” Bellamy rasps, staring at the leash in his hands once more. “We ran from what he did, at first, and then we fought each other. He went back to their camp, and they killed him.”

Murphy is silent for a moment, considering. “You fought because you didn’t want him to go back? And he did?”

Bellamy scoffs, just a little, at how predictable he is. How predictable they both are. He nods.

“ _That_ sounds like Finn,” Murphy concludes, smiling just a little.

“Yeah,” Bellamy agrees, tears pooling in his eyes. His voice cracks and he clears his throat, embarrassed. “Anyway. Octavia was sick, Luna and I fought over what to do. She wanted to take Octavia to some kind of safe haven in the east, I didn’t trust it. They left me in the middle of the night.”

Murphy, wisely, says nothing.

“Found Picasso a little while after that,” Bellamy finishes, patting her on the head as they ascend the steps to Roan’s house. “Ever since, the plan has been to find the bus, then take it and everyone back with me to find Octavia, maybe stay in this safe place Luna has,” he sighs, rubbing his hand down his face. “If it even exists, anyway.”

“You were gonna do all that by yourself?” Murphy asks, a mischievous bent to his grin. For a second, it feels like old times, with Murphy as his second-in-command, joking together while Bellamy teaches him to throw his hatchet, or tie a knot, or throw a punch. He wants to clap Murphy on the shoulder like he used to.

Bellamy can’t help but smile. “I never said it was a good plan.”

They reach the grand double doors out front, and Murphy puts a skinny finger to his lips, opening one door slowly. Guess that’s the end of that conversation. The glow fades, and Bellamy sours. It was never like that between them. Bellamy was manipulating Murphy. The good times in his imagination are a fiction.

They wait for Echo in silence.

Echo is a tall, severe woman who arrives at Roan’s place around ten minutes after Bellamy and Murphy return. She doesn’t knock, just lets herself in the front doors, stops when she sees Bellamy standing there in the foyer.

“Who the hell are you?” she questions immediately, drawing the dagger strapped to her thigh and pointing it toward him. Bellamy almost smiles at the way she plants herself between him and Murphy. She’s wearing armor similar to Roan’s, pieced together from metal and tire rubber, but definitely less ornate. Her long brown hair tumbles loose at her shoulders.

“Echo, it’s okay,” Murphy assures her, not moving from where he’s spinning back and forth on a bar stool, bored. “This is Bellamy. He saved Roan’s life yesterday, he’s here as a guest.”

A beat passes. “Oh,” she says, slipping the dagger back into its sheath. When she rises again, her cheeks are a little pink. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Just Bellamy?”

Bellamy narrows his eyes. Roan asked him that, too. Must be, like, a _thing_ around here. “Bellamy Blake.”

“I thank you, Bellamy Blake,” Echo recites stiffly, bowing her head to him just a little. “For saving my King’s life. There’s no one here to make you anything to eat, but if you’d like I can send someone on my way to feed—”

“He won’t want that,” Murphy interrupts her quickly, now very much paying attention. His pale hand is clutching her sleeve with a surprising urgency. Bellamy flicks his eyes between them, trying to figure this out. Murphy turns to address him. “You don’t want someone to cook for you, right?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “Oh, no, _no_. Not necessary,” he says, waving his big hands in front of him. “I think I can fend for myself.”

Tension lingers, but Echo nods, smiling just a bit, like she’s trying very hard to be polite. “The kitchen is just past the living room, and anything inside is alright to eat, as long as you tell me what you took.”

Bellamy nods. “I can do that,” he agrees.

Another pause. God, this is fucking weird. Murphy is looking between them with narrowed eyes, Echo is looking like she might be laughing at him internally, and Picasso is sitting alert at his side, glued to his left leg.

“Okay, shall we go, Murphy?” Echo asks, breaking the silence and holding out her hand. At first, Bellamy expects Murphy to take it with his own, but instead he places the leash there, and then Bellamy remembers where he is.

He storms through the living room, avoids looking at the couch, and roots through the kitchen as quietly as possible, not caring if Echo and Murphy have left. At some point, he does hear the door close, as much as he wishes he wasn’t listening for it.

Bellamy makes himself some eggs from the basket on the counter, drinks some fruit juice from a big jug. Feeds Picasso some sausage he finds in the bottom drawer of Roan's fridge. The morning crawls on after that, with nothing to do. He opens every cabinet in the kitchen, then passes straight through the living room again to examine the bar.

Roan seems to have a lot of alcohol, but most of the bottles look low. There’s also just random shit back behind the bar that almost certainly doesn’t belong there. A pretty vicious looking knife, stowed in one of the drawers. A pair of furry handcuffs looking very tragic, abandoned as they are next to rows of empty bottles and a single boot. Cleaning supplies, unidentifiable white powder wrapped in plastic bags, what looks like a flare gun. A badminton racket? Just chaos. What a mess.

When the front door opens again, it’s Echo alone.

“Where’s Murphy?” Bellamy asks immediately, tossing the fuzzy handcuffs back onto the shelf hopefully before Echo could see him holding them.

Echo smiles, and this time it looks like it might be genuine. “He said you would ask me that,” she says, which is not an answer. She seems to notice his dissatisfaction, and rolls her eyes. “Relax, he’s fine. I’m here for you.”

Bellamy’s cheeks flush. “Me? For what?”

“The royal tour of Azgeda, of course,” Echo supplies, coming to stand next to him beside the bar, hands clasped behind her. “With a surprise at the end.”

Bellamy’s eyebrows jump up at that. “A surprise?”

He can’t deny how beautiful she is, but even as he catches her eyes lingering on his mouth, a sense of wrongness persists. Is this Echo’s job? Is she seducing him right now? And if she is, is it just because it’s what Roan expects?

Echo rolls her eyes. “He said you were stupid, too,” she says, taking his sleeve and pulling him out the door. “Come on, fool. A tour first, and then your _special surprise_.”

It’s hard not to be distracted during his tour, for lots of reasons, but Bellamy tries to focus on the important things, structural things that will tell him more about how this place works. There are runners, who hunt for people and supplies out in the wasteland. Fighters, teachers, wall guards. People working on repairing buildings or structures, framing new ones. It’s a functioning society, though very evidently thriving mostly via theft and slavery.

His ‘special surprise’ ends up being in Roan’s war tent, at the center of camp. Pulse racing, he follows Echo through the canvas flap entrance, unsure what to expect inside. She doesn’t take her clothes off, though. Instead, she pulls out an enormous roll of canvas and spreads it across the table.

It’s a map.

“Oh,” Bellamy gasps, stepping forward to run his fingers down the surface reverently. Oh, there’s everything. The Ark is even on here. “Holy shit.”

This is perfect. It’s exactly what he needs, to find both the 48 and Octavia. Maybe he can cross-reference this map with the one she left for him! He goes to take it from where it lives in his bottom right pants pocket, then he freezes. Echo is still standing right there. Does he want her to know about Octavia, about his plans? Her knowledge of Azgeda and the wasteland might be useful, but he is completely out of his element here, beholden to Roan’s whim, which seems unpredictable if he’s being charitable. Probably best to keep it to himself for now, so he slips the map back into his pocket.

He and Echo spend a few hours together, going over her map, stopping for a while to eat. Picasso sits and shakes with Echo very politely for some scraps. Bellamy asks questions innocently as he can manage, memorizes in glances, but Echo is perceptive enough to piece together he’s looking for something out there.

“You don’t have to give me details,” Echo tells him as they walk back to the palace, sun setting. Picasso noses at her hand. “But Roan trusts me more than anyone else in this place. I could help you with whatever it is you’re trying to do, if you let me.”

Bellamy peers at her from the corner of his eye. “Why should I trust you?”

It’s a little hostile, but there’s no reason not to be upfront. Echo is asking a lot, whether she knows that or not.

“Murphy does,” she replies simply, like she’s secure that answer will be enough for him. “And you trust Murphy.”

Bellamy curses under his breath, because he can't fault that logic. “Fine,” he says, stopping them before they climb the stairs to the door. “I’m looking for my younger sister, Octavia, and her girlfriend. She left me a map but it’s been useless to me so far. I… didn’t want you to see it, earlier,” he finishes lamely, retrieving the tightly folded slip of paper from his pocket and holding it for Echo to take.

She unfolds the paper gingerly, frowns. “This is just a bunch of blobs.”

Bellamy sighs. “Yeah, I may have... sweat on it some.”

Echo’s mouth twitches and she ducks her head. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says, tucking the map into her own pocket, turning to leave him. “Let’s try looking at it together tomorrow?”

Bellamy frowns. “Wait, you’re not coming in?”

Echo shakes her head. “I eat my dinner in the barracks with the men,” she tells him, a simple fact that necessarily ends their evening here. Looks like only personal guests of Roan, outsiders like Bellamy, have any measure of flexibility here. “Have a good night, Bellamy.”

She takes his hand quickly, then squeezes it before turning and walking away without looking back.

“Good night, Echo.”

In the palm of his hand, there is a small key. Bellamy’s world tilts on its side for just a moment, his mouth parted in shock. When he looks back up, Echo has vanished, so he shuts his mouth, tucks the key away and lopes up the stairs two at a time. He thinks he knows what lock this key belongs to, but he can’t know for sure until he checks. Bellamy has to see…

When he swings the door open, Roan is there behind the bar, shirtless and coated in sweat.

“Bellamy!” he shouts, clearly intoxicated. “Buddy! Where’ve you been all day, man? I missed you!”

Bellamy gives an unconvincing smile and comes to join Roan at the bar slowly. “Echo was nice enough to show me around a little.”

“Oh, she’s great right?” Roan gushes, nodding aggressively. “Yeah, she’s good. She’s smarter than me, so sometimes she doesn’t do what I say. Probably more often than I even know, honestly. But she showed you around, that’s good.”

“Um,” Bellamy says, looking around. Where’s Murphy? Roan is seriously fucked up.

“Come eat with me!” Roan near-shouts, like he just remembered, eyes wide. “Come, come, come,” he says, rushing past Bellamy into the kitchen, waving his hand excitedly. He stumbles, almost falls over, but catches himself on the door frame, laughing. Picasso hangs close by Bellamy, spooked by Roan’s lumbering, and he strokes the fur around her neck like she likes, trying to calm her down.

There’s a bunch of delicious-looking, freshly prepared food on the island counter. Things he’s never seen, strange-looking vegetables and lots of different kinds of meat, and all of it smells amazing. Roan roots around the cabinets, hands Bellamy a plate. He doesn't even know where to start.

“Take anything you want,” he says, serving himself. “And then we’ll go eat in the dining room.”

“Lot of food,” Bellamy comments as he does the same, trying to keep his tone light. “Will Murphy be joining us?”

Roan stares at him for a second, then starts full-on giggling, like Bellamy’s just said the funniest thing in the world. “No,” he says through laughter, shaking his head and disappearing down another hallway, presumably to the dining room.

Bellamy grits his teeth, loads his plate, slipping some bread into his bag just in case. Tries not to think of who cooked this meal, who cultivated this food, or if it was stolen and who they stole it from. He passes beneath the string lights lining the hallway, walking on wooden legs, wondering how Roan keeps the lights on, wondering what the average person here is doing while Roan sits with his feet up on the chair next to him, the one across the table pulled out for Bellamy. When he sees Bellamy in the doorway, he gestures to his seat.

“Sit, and talk with me,” Roan insists, propping his head up on his hand and leaning onto the table, picking at his plate with his fingers. His eyes feel intense on Bellamy, shining in the dim light.

“Um, sure,” Bellamy says, trying for friendly. He lowers into the chair, sets his plate on the table, which has several drinks and even more food on it. Picasso settles down too, lying next to his feet on the floor. “What do you want to talk about?”

It’s been a long day. Bellamy is in a whole new world, again, and there’s no breaks. He’s inside of a sleeping monster with his dog, across the dinner table from a drugged-out slaver king at the end of the world. Somewhere in this big house, the back of Murphy’s collar is locked with a padlock, and the key to that padlock may or may not be tingling against Bellamy’s thigh right now. He wants to reach into his pocket and touch it, make sure it’s really there, but he can’t let Roan know he has it. Even thinking about it is making him paranoid.

“What are you looking for out there, Bellamy?” Roan drawls, pulling one of the many stemmed glasses on the table toward him and taking a sip. Looks like champagne.

Bellamy takes a bite of some mashed potatoes, wants to cry at how fluffy and warm they are. “I’m, uh, looking for my friends. We got separated.”

“Yeah, you know,” Roan clears his throat, nods. “That makes sense. I appreciate you being there to rescue me, back at the gas station, but it did seem odd. You don’t strike me as the lone wanderer type, really. No offense.”

Bellamy smiles a little. “None taken,” he says, running his fingers through Picasso’s fur. “Besides, I’m not alone. I have this pretty girl right here.”

Roan smiles, the crinkle of his eyes drawing Bellamy’s attention to the scars there, to the fine angle of his cheekbones. He _is_ handsome, if Bellamy forgets who he is.

“You think Johnny is pretty too, don’t you?” Roan rumbles, interrupting Bellamy checking him out and nearly making the younger man choke. Why would he bring up Murphy? Just because he’s high, thinking about pretty things, or because Bellamy mentioned looking for his friends? How much has he figured out? Roan’s eyes are locked on Bellamy as he continues to eat from his plate.

Instantly, his palms start sweating. “Um, I don’t—” Bellamy wants to shut his eyes for a second, be alone in the dark with his thoughts to process.

“You can say it,” Roan encourages, leaning across the table and pulling his feet back from the other chair. His voice grows dark. “I wanna hear you say it.”

Bellamy wants to vanish. He can’t say it. He doesn't understand what's happening, and besides, he can hardly admit his desire for Murphy to _himself_. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Say it!” Roan demands, banging his hand on the table. The glasses rattle. Picasso is on her feet, huffing next to Bellamy, ready to protect him. A beat passes, and Roan slams his hand on the table again, sending Bellamy rocketing backward out of his chair, putting Picasso behind him and far away from Roan.

He hears footsteps pounding through the house, headed toward them.

“Daddy!” Murphy shouts, crashing into the room from the hallway. “What’s going on?”

Roaring, Roan grabs one of the glasses off the table and turns to hurl it at the wall behind them. It explodes everywhere, and Bellamy ducks, shielding Picasso from the flying shards with his body. When the dust settles, Bellamy peeks over his shoulder to see Murphy with his arms over his face, bare feet tucked in close together beneath him to avoid the glass, breathing hard. They are all frozen in place for a few painful seconds.

“Bellamy, it’s time for you to go to sleep,” Roan mutters in an emotionless, flat tone.

Bellamy clenches his fists. He doesn’t want to go. He won't go. He will _not_ leave Murphy here, not after that.

“Please,” Murphy whispers, holding himself. “Please, just go. It’s fine.”

Bellamy’s going to crack his jaw he’s clenching it so hard. Slowly, he stoops to scoop Picasso into his grasp, carrying her so she doesn’t cut herself on the broken glass all over the floor. Will Roan carry Murphy, to protect his feet?

He can hear Murphy murmuring to Roan as he makes his way down the hallway, puts Picasso down as soon as it’s safe and rushes with her through the house until they’re both back in the small guest room. Bellamy is really in danger of storming back in there, punching Roan in his dumb face and grabbing Murphy to just go. He can’t, though, and he won’t. Murphy told him that’s not what he wants. Bellamy doesn’t get to just do it anyway.

After a few hours of pacing, sitting steaming on his bed, and lying down fruitlessly trying to rest, Bellamy creeps from his bed and down the narrow hallway once more, intrigued by soft music and this strange, watery gasping sound echoing through the house.

When he gets to the corner and pokes his head around, the gasping makes sense. It’s Roan, eyes closed and clinging to Murphy in the middle of the living room, spinning him slowly to the music. His enormous shoulders are quaking with mostly silent sobs, and every now and then he’ll grasp desperately at Murphy, trying to pull him in even closer. They’re both still dressed, and yet the scene feels even more intimate than Bellamy overhearing their sex or seeing Roan above Murphy on the couch last night.

Murphy looks so small next to him, like Roan is pulling him into himself, absorbing him whole. If Murphy were to pull away, Roan would certainly collapse.

The floor beneath Bellamy creaks, and Murphy looks up, catches his eye. A million things pass through the air between them until finally, Bellamy nods and retreats back to his room, leaving the two of them to continue spinning alone in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy: Can Murphy have some food  
> Roan: no❤️


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bellamy caught him on a bad night,” he says, sighing and dropping his leg to cross his ankles. “He shattered a wine glass on the wall again.”
> 
> ‘A bad night?’ ‘Again?’ Bellamy scoffs before he can stop himself, smiling through his fury and bewilderment though he is anything but happy. Murphy knows how this looks, he told Bellamy as much on his first night here, so how can it keep getting worse? What could Bellamy possibly be misunderstanding here to make this not awful? He has to smile or he’ll scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... here's Bellamy's second full day in Azgeda. It's a lot. Big day. Lots going on. I have no clue what happened here (what *keeps* happening here....) or why this chapter is so long but I hope you enjoy it!!!
> 
> Please note, trigger warning for a dissociation, a character being drugged (with noncon implied), and a suicide attempt at the end of this chapter. Take care <3

Bellamy feels like he’s been hit by a bus when he wakes up the next morning, rising groggily with the sun. Having learned his lesson, he didn’t accept any drinks from Roan last night, so the hangover is purely emotional. Feels like shit. Echo will be here for Murphy soon, he remembers immediately, staring through still mostly-closed eyes at the slivers of morning light shining through the blinds. Picasso is curled up in the space made by his bent knees, snoring peacefully.

He should get up, see if he can catch Murphy before he leaves for the morning. Part of it is to ask about Roan and what the fuck happened last night, but the other part is to finally get a closer look at that padlock on Murphy’s collar, confirm that the key Echo slipped him does indeed unlock it. Bellamy slides out from bed as carefully as he can so Picasso can keep sleeping and retrieves the key from his pants pocket, dressing himself quickly with the metal pressed into his palm. It seems to hum in his hand.

He tries not to think about the possibilities, not yet. It’s useless to start forming plans when he doesn’t even know what the key is for, when all of this is still so confusing and unknown to him. He doesn’t _know_ Echo, or Roan, and as much as it pains him to admit, there’s a lot he doesn’t know about Murphy anymore either. He doesn’t know why she slipped him the key. What would the consequences even _be_ , if Bellamy were to escape with Murphy? Would Roan send people after them? Come after them himself? Bellamy'd have to kill him to stop him, probably.

 _Murphy doesn’t want to leave with you, you big asshole_ , he reminds himself, grumpy as he makes his way down the hallway and into the foyer, dropping the key back into his pocket. Bellamy is so bad at this.

When he reaches the home’s entryway, Murphy is seated at a bar stool, one leg tucked in close to him, face resting on his knee. He’s wearing little red shorts today, still not much more substantial than his briefs, and a loose sweatshirt that nearly covers them entirely. Bellamy frowns at how small he looks, how curled into himself.

“Hey,” he says as softly as he can manage, but it still makes Murphy flinch, head snapping up to look at Bellamy.

“Fuck, you startled me,” Murphy breathes, brushing his messy hair from his eyes with a shaking hand. Right away, it’s obvious something is wrong. Beyond his shaking, Murphy won’t look at him, remains curled on himself, staring resolutely at the front doors.

Without thinking, Bellamy goes to Murphy, sitting next to him on the stool like he had his first night here, reaching his hand out to rest on the countertop next to him. “Are you okay?”

Murphy still isn’t looking at him, shrugs. Bellamy takes the opportunity to look Murphy over for fresh wounds of any kind, doesn’t see anything immediately obvious . Checks his feet specifically, sees that they are dirty but intact, no cuts or scrapes from shattered glass. His chest fills with a strange feeling at the sight.

“I don’t know what I did,” Bellamy begins slowly, not exactly sure he’s even saying the right thing, if he should say anything at all. “But I’m sorry I set Roan off, and I’m sorry for scaring you.”

Murphy shakes his head, scoffing a little. “None of that was your fault. I’m sorry if he scared _you_.”

Bellamy’s heart leaps at that first sentence, at hearing those words leave Murphy’s mouth, and getting “sorry” on top of that is like being slapped in the face. Their relationship is so god damn complicated now it makes him want to puke. He wants to protect Murphy, a desire sharpened by his own mistreatment of him, his own repeated and often deliberate failure to keep him safe. It’s selfish.

That isn’t all, though, much as Bellamy wants to punish himself for this. Maybe his concern for Murphy is selfish, but it isn’t like his worry is unfounded. Anyone would see how bad this is.

Bellamy tries swallowing the lump in his throat. “He did scare me,” he admits, looking down at his hand in his lap. “But I wasn’t scared for myself. I’m still not, Murphy. I’m scared for you.”

When he looks back up, Murphy’s mouth is parted slightly in disbelief, shocked by Bellamy’s honesty. He presses his lips together like he’s trying to come up with something to say but the words won’t come, eyes jumping back and forth between Bellamy’s. Something snaps in him and Bellamy suddenly remembers the key in his pocket, the mission of inspecting Murphy’s collar.

Slowly, Bellamy raises the hand he’s rested on the counter, reaching for the collar. “Can I see?” he asks, with his heart in his throat.

Murphy’s breath catches in his throat and he nods silently, watching Bellamy’s hands the whole time. Feather-light, Bellamy touches the leather of the collar, runs his fingertips along the fur lining, fingernails tracing Murphy’s pulse point. A shiver takes Murphy and Bellamy swallows once more, trying to focus on the padlock in the back. He’s leaned forward into Murphy’s space to get a good look, his neck hovering just inches away from Murphy’s mouth.

“Bellamy,” Murphy gasps, and Bellamy can feel his hot breath on his skin. One of his hands hovers just below Bellamy’s elbow, hesitating.

No question, this is the home of Bellamy’s key. He’s turned it over in his hands so many times he could find it among a thousand keys in the dark. A tingling sensation spreads through him slowly, starting at the tips of his fingers and toes and shooting right up his arms and legs and into his torso. All of the implications that were before simply suspended above him, hanging above Bellamy’s head like knives, have crashed down around him.

Echo really gave him the key to Murphy’s collar. Bellamy pulls back from Murphy, withdrawing his fingers. If he lets them drag across the pale skin of Murphy’s throat just a little, sends another shiver through the collared young man in front of him, Bellamy pretends it is an accident. Murphy looks at his mouth, licks his own lips. Something between them resonates.

The front door swings open, the feeling evaporates, and Echo is there. When she sees Bellamy and Murphy sitting there waiting for her, she smiles a tight little smile, glancing between them carefully. She took a risk slipping him that key, Bellamy knows. She must be wondering if Bellamy spilled the beans.

“Good morning,” she greets them, her voice low and soft as velvet. “How was dinner?”

Bellamy doesn’t even know where to begin answering that question. Hopefully they’ll have more time together today to talk about all of it, and for him to ask her if she made any progress on the map, but right now, with Murphy here next to him? How could he possibly explain without dissolving from how uncomfortable he is? Tension lingers like a film on his skin.

Just as he’s considering how best to censor the story so he isn’t lying to anyone present, Murphy rescues him.

“Bellamy caught him on a bad night,” he says, sighing and dropping his leg to cross his ankles. “He shattered a wine glass on the wall again.”

‘A bad night?’ ‘ _Again_?’ Bellamy scoffs before he can stop himself, smiling through his fury and bewilderment though he is anything but happy. Murphy knows how this looks, he told Bellamy as much on his first night here, so how can it keep getting worse? What could Bellamy possibly be misunderstanding here to make this not awful? He has to smile or he’ll scream.

Echo catches his eye and seems to know what he’s thinking, pursing her lips sympathetically for a moment and ducking her head, coming to join them by the bar.

“He’ll be better today,” she assures them both quietly, crossing her toned arms in front of her. Not very reassuring, how normal it seems. Like she’s said it dozens of times, because he’s done it dozens of times. “I am sorry, though.”

Murphy shrugs this off, hopping to his feet and fiddling with the leash. “He calmed down quick enough. No one got hurt.”

Bellamy remembers the way Murphy flinched at the smashing glass, at how enormous his eyes were after, at how he trembled whole-body as he stood there begging Bellamy to leave. Even if the glass didn’t cut his feet, Murphy didn’t walk away unhurt last night.

“That’s good,” Echo replies, oblivious to Bellamy’s brooding. “He’ll want to do something with you today,” she says to Bellamy, taking Murphy’s leash. “To make it up to you.”

Bellamy blinks. “Oh. Can we still—?”

Echo nods, interrupting him. “Don’t worry, Roan has a short attention span. You and I can still work on your search today.”

“Good,” Bellamy says, releasing a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His priorities are getting all tangled and confused, but finding his friends and getting back to Octavia are still the main reasons he’s in Azgeda. He can’t afford to get distracted, and he can’t plan on any sort of rescue for Murphy until he understands more what the hell is going on here.

Murphy and Echo leave, and Bellamy is alone in the house once more. There’s not really anything to do, at least not on his own, so he wanders back into the living room, again avoiding the couch in favor of examining the record player and sleeves and sleeves of records Roan keeps next to them. He wonders which of them was playing last night.

Roan’s taste is all over the map, and most of it is music Bellamy doesn’t know. Where the hell did he find all of these in the first place? Did he have people out there in the wasteland looking for vinyl for him? The concept is chilling, just a little. 

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

A woman’s voice behind him makes him jump, and he whips around to see a girl he doesn’t recognize standing there with her arms crossed, dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her pale face is scarred like Roan’s.

“Who are you?” Bellamy questions, immediately on edge.

“Ontari,” She announces as she walks over to him, completely unfazed. “This is my house. I could ask the same of you.”

Shit. “I’m sorry,” Bellamy says, stepping away from the record player. “My name is Bellamy Blake. I, uh, saved Roan’s life the other day. I’m his guest,” he explains.

‘Guest’ was what Murphy had called him to reassure Echo he was no threat, and the word seems to work once more with Ontari, who assesses him through narrowed eyes before nodding, impressed.

“Nice work, Bellamy,” Ontari praises him, still a little bored, pulling a record from its sleeve and flipping it around in her fingers. “Someone has to keep an eye on him while I’m away.”

She sets the record carefully on the player, lowers the needle. No explanation of who she is, where she’s been, why, if she lives here, Bellamy has not seen her once in the past few days. Ontari makes zero effort to put him at ease or anticipate his lack of knowledge about her or this place. She simply does not give a shit about him.

Gentle harp music swells from the horned speaker in front of her, and Ontari closes her eyes as a female vocalist warbles in another language. It’s _her_ music collection, Bellamy realizes.

“God, I miss my music when I’m gone,” she unwittingly confirms him, still not really acknowledging Bellamy and going to drop heavily into the big purple armchair, propping her feet on the table. Her boots are on and dirty. “Nothing sounds the same as vinyl.”

Bellamy smirks, looking at his hands. That makes him think of the Ark. “I’ve heard that,” he says casually, remaining standing but choosing to join Ontari in this strange atmosphere, shifting just a bit to lean against the mantle of the fireplace. If he has to get answers himself, he can be cool about it. “Where are you coming back from?”

She sighs, closing her eyes. “Some bumfuck settlement, who cares,” Ontari answers blithely, waving her hand in the air. “It doesn’t exist anymore, anyway, and its people belong to us now. Echo will have to update her little map.”

Bellamy’s stomach flips, and he clenches his fist where it hangs next to his face. How flippantly Ontari speaks about wiping an entire community off the map, about stealing people for Roan’s empire. Calling it ‘Echo’s little map’ as if it isn’t the most impressive thing Bellamy has ever seen, as if _she_ isn’t… god, it makes his blood boil.

Like she senses him staring at her, Ontari sits up, opening her eyes to level them at Bellamy intensely. Her features are soft and pretty, almost charming, but there is an icy cruelty in her eyes that makes him shiver.

“Where are you from, Bellamy Blake?” she questions him, suddenly serious.

He swallows. “The Ark.”

He saw it on Echo’s map, he knows Azgeda knows of it. Sure enough, Ontari smirks, her eyebrows shooting up on her face.

“Really?” she says, slowly like she can’t quite believe it, but it’s also insanely boring to her. “Man, that’s something. Haven’t seen any of your people above ground in a long time.”

Bellamy clenches his jaw, nods. “That’s right. We thought there was nothing left, but now it’s dying, so they sent us out to the surface to see if we could find somewhere else to live.”

Ontari leans forward onto her knees, now interested. “But instead, when you got up here, people were already living on the ground,” she finishes the story for him, eyes narrowed. “And somebody got the friends you left with, is that right?”

Bellamy nods, suddenly fearful.

“Huh,” Ontari sniffs, crossing her arms once more. A cruel smile creeps across her face slowly, and the hair on the back of Bellamy’s neck stands straight up. She looks at him again. “You know, that sounds familiar.”

Fuck. Bellamy’s stomach drops. He’s said too much to the wrong person. What if Murphy has told her about what happened to him? If she lives in this house there’s no way she doesn’t know about him and talk to him, right? It no longer feels safe to assume anything, not while he’s here. The world does not work the way he thought it did, and that becomes more and more true with every passing day. He does not know the rules.

Before he needs come up with something to say, Roan breezes into the room from his bedroom, running his hands through his messy morning hair. He’s shirtless and humming to himself, freezing when he notices the two of them there, hears the opera.

“Ontari” he rumbles in surprise, yawning. “You’re back so early.”

“You’re _awake_ so early,” she counters, rising from her chair. “Oh, and yes, I did have a lovely trip, thank you for asking.”

Roan scowls, but a smile pulls at his lips. “Oh, shut it,” he says, no real heat to it. Bellamy glances back and forth between them, surprised when Ontari lunges forward to pull Roan into a back smacking hug. Huh. Of all things, that is certainly not what Bellamy was expecting. It’s no intimate embrace or anything, but it definitely shocks him enough to still be distracted when Roan pulls away and asks him a question.

Bellamy shakes his head. “Huh? I mean, sorry, what?”

Roan chuckles. “I asked if you’ve been down to the basement yet.”

Oh. He’d been meaning to snoop around Roan’s house, but it seems like he keeps odd hours, and after what he experienced the last two evenings, Bellamy isn’t eager to get caught somewhere he isn’t supposed to be. He shakes his head again, catches Ontari rolling her eyes.

“Annoying,” she says, crossing her arms once more. “You’re so predictable.”

Roan flushes, glancing nervously at Bellamy. “What? Bellamy uses a hatchet!”

Bellamy laughs, exasperated. “Sorry, can someone fill me in?” It’s getting a little irritating now, they way Ontari is shaping this interaction to be as confusing as possible. Like Bellamy had, Roan appears to bow to the tone she has established for them. Man, this is fucking confusing.

“He wants you to throw hatchets with him in the basement,” she reports flatly, eyes shining with delight in taking that reveal from Roan.

“There’s a whole target range set up,” Roan adds, suddenly sheepish. He looks like a six foot tall boy, rubbing the back of his neck shyly. “We could practice together, if you want.”

Bellamy would be lying if he said he isn’t a little embarrassed, not just for himself but for Roan as well. Ontari appears to be the closest thing to an equal he has around here, but they clearly aren’t really friends, even if Roan seems to think so. Why else would he be so desperate for company? Why else would he shrink from her the way he does?

“Sure,” Bellamy agrees, eager to get away from Ontari, get Roan alone when he seems the most coherent he has since they first met out in the wastes. “Haven’t been able to practice in a while.”

Roan beams, rubs his palms together excitedly. “Yes, I can’t wait!” The muscles of his arms flex, and all Bellamy can think of is those same muscles hurling that wine glass at the wall. Murphy’s pale fingers on those arms, trembling. Murphy engulfed in them, disappearing into Roan as they twirl.

Ontari groans. “Boring,” she says, stalking out of the room without a goodbye, shoving Roan as she goes and interrupting Bellamy’s thoughts with the slam of the door.

He can’t help himself. “What’s with her?” Bellamy asks, smiling lightly, like _no big deal_.

It works, and Roan sighs, shaking his head fondly. “She gets restless like this sometimes,” he explains, waving for Bellamy to follow him, opening the dark, narrow door behind him. Jesus, this building never ends. “I wouldn’t worry about her; if she didn’t like you, you’d know it. You’ll be fine with me.”

Oddly, that does not make Bellamy feel any better. Nothing anyone says to him here to comfort him ever does. In fact, the churning dread in his gut only grows as they descend into the dark basement. The temperature plummets, or maybe that’s just Bellamy.

Mercifully, Roan tugs a chain and lights flicker on, revealing a large, mostly unfinished basement with netting and three wooden hatchet targets set up in one corner, scattered weights and exercise equipment taking up the rest of the space. Under the stairs, partially obscured by shadow, there’s a pillow and blanket, chains hanging down from a bolt in the concrete wall. Empty brown bottles on the floor. Dark stains of _something_. Bellamy gets a sick feeling in his throat.

Roan catches him looking at the bizarre setup under the stairs, smiles, and gestures instead toward the targets with narrowed eyes. Bellamy understands at once: those chains are not why they are down here. They are down here because Roan wants to throw hatchets and have a good time, not so Bellamy can ask questions that will almost certainly ruin that good time. That’s not part of the fun, and Bellamy is here so Roan can have fun.

“May I?” Bellamy asks, drawing his hatchet from his belt. He’s getting better and better at this, at swallowing his bitterness and playing nice, presenting something pleasant even as he is searing with rage inside. It has become fuel, in a weird way.

Roan’s smile broadens, softens into something real. “By all means,” he says, stepping back and crossing his arms.

Bellamy wastes no time, channeling his fury and launching his hatchet at the center target with so much force a that piece splinters off upon the metal blade burying itself into the wood.

“Woah!” Roan shouts. He flinches but he’s beaming, clapping his hands together again in glee. “Holy shit man, I knew you’d be good! Let’s go!”

It actually feels incredible, hurling hatchets at the wall with Roan. He’s definitely better at it than the king, both hitting the target and sticking the blade into the wood upon impact more frequently, but honestly they’re pretty evenly matched. If he focuses on his breath, feels the burn in his muscles and the satisfying thump of axe hitting target, he can ignore secret memories of Murphy that threaten to surface. He was shit at throwing the hatchet when Bellamy tried to teach him. Knives, too.

A sort of rhythm develops, and he can lose himself in the sensation and sound. After the better part of an hour, Bellamy tires out, leaning over to rest his hands on his knees. The last several hours is the best he’s eaten in months, and his body is honestly pretty weak from pushing himself to the limit for that entire time. Roan seems completely unaffected by their activity, other than the sheen of sweat on his bare torso and the lively flush in his cheeks.

Startling him, Roan’s big hand lands on Bellamy’s shoulder, firm but not rough this time. “Sorry about that, last night. I haven’t had a guest in so long, I…” he trails off, sighing. “I forget myself.”

He thinks about what Echo told him earlier, about Roan making it up to him. It’s obvious to Bellamy that his remorse is sincere, and he can’t help but feel a little bad for him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he assures him lightly, though he mostly says it just to be nice. He stands back up, wipes the sweat from his brow. Bellamy is _very_ worried about Roan’s outburst, actually, and Roan definitely should be too.

Roan nods, smiling, and surprises Bellamy again by continuing.

“I just love him so much,” Roan says, removing his hand from Bellamy’s shoulder to place it on the big knife at his belt, tracing the stitching on the leather handle. He stares off at nothing through the far wall, thinking. “My Johnny. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he pauses, laughing and running his hand over his face. “God, it makes me crazy sometimes.”

Nothing about that is very funny to Bellamy, but he paints on a strained smile regardless. He hates that fucking nickname, it doesn’t sound like Murphy at all. Smashing things on the somewhat-regular is absolutely nothing to chuckle over, it is not okay, it is not cute or sweet that Murphy lives with a man like this. Tears sting in Bellamy’s eyes even as he tries to blink them away. He burns with shame for the things he has done to Murphy.

Roan sees. “Hey,” he takes Bellamy gently by the forearm, completely misunderstanding. “I know you’re worried about your friends. It’s all gonna be fine; I told Echo to help you. She’ll know how to find ‘em, get them back.”

Bellamy nods, accepting this turn in the conversation. “She knows what she’s doing,” he agrees, relieved he does not have to lie. “I had no chance of rescuing them before. But now?” he shakes his head, swipes at a tear with his thumb. “Just, thanks.”

It’s weird, to mean what he’s saying and to hate Roan so intensely at the same time. Roan’s very stupid, honestly. Lonely. Easy to manipulate.

He smiles back at Bellamy, his own eyes shining a little too. “What are friends for?”

They go back to it for a while, but it’s obvious that Roan is getting bored. After another few tosses, Bellamy turns to Roan.

“You said Echo can find my people,” he says carefully, looking down at his calloused hands. “How?”

Roan assesses him for a moment, then crosses his arms. “You wanna go get her right now? We can all look together.”

No, Bellamy does not want to go get Echo right now, not if it means Roan is coming along. His time with her kind of needs to be away from Roan, especially if they’re… well, _plotting_. He’s reading between the lines for all of it, guessing a lot, but it really feels like Echo is trying to get him alone to tell him something. That won’t work with Roan there too.

“Okay,” is what he says instead, because Roan isn’t really the type of man you get to say no to, and follows him out of the basement. When they reemerge on the ground level, the record player is off, record back in its sleeve and stored away like Ontari was never there.

“Do you mind if I get Picasso, and my rifle?” Bellamy asks, because at least Roan can grant him that. He still has limited ammo, but he feels safer with it on his back. Roan says nothing, just waves him away. When he goes down the hall, Picasso hears him and jumps from the bed, tail wagging. Immediately, some of the tension eases from Bellamy’s shoulders at the touch of her soft fur when he pets her head. It’s quick enough to grab his rifle from under the bed, swing it over his shoulder and rejoin the king in his foyer.

Roan doesn’t even bother to put a shirt on, just grabs his now-clean armor from its hook behind the bar and slipping it on over his bare skin. More changes that happen silently in the background, a system Bellamy does not know and one that appears deliberately obscured from view. It must be slaves, more collared people like Hansel and those women Bellamy saw that first night, that do these things for Roan while he throws his axes in his basement.

This walk through Azgeda is very, very different from his walk with Echo. Every single person they pass stops whatever they are doing to acknowledge Roan, some in such a hurry to fall to their knees and bow that they drop what they’re holding. Bellamy keeps his eyes trained on Roan next to him, who smiles calmly, tilting his face toward the sun. Basking in it.

Man, he wants to wring his neck. He leans over and buries his fingers into Picasso’s fur again, trying to keep it together until they make it to the war tent.

When Roan lifts the tent flap, Echo is inside, and she spins in surprise.

“My king,” she says at once, bringing her hand to her forehead and then her heart, bowing deeply. “I wasn’t expecting you. I thought Dakiva was supposed to brief you on Ontari’s—”

Roan silences her with another wave of his hand, scowling thoughtfully. “Ontari sacks settlements all the time, she can wait. This is more important right now.”

Echo blinks once, the barest expression of shock that is extremely endearing to Bellamy. “I, oh. Alright then,” she nods, stepping forward to where the map is already spread across the war table. She looks at Bellamy. “I think I know where your friends are.”

His heart flips in his chest, and Bellamy leans forward heavily, catching himself on the edge of the table. “Show me.”

Echo presses her lips together, eyes flicking to Roan for just a second. “I need something of yours first.”

Bellamy frowns. “Something of mine? What, like an object?”

She shakes her head, sighing. “No, I mean like, your hair or something.”

A flush rises in his cheeks, and Bellamy nods. “Oh. Um, okay.”

 _Magic_. Magic is normal part of life for some people on the surface, he knows, but Bellamy doesn’t meet many people out here usually. He certainly doesn’t have witches performing spells for him, _from_ him. _Echo is a witch_. His pulse leaps at the thought, keeps thundering in his ears as Echo steps carefully around the table to join him. Next to her, Roan draws his knife from his belt, places it in the hand she outstretches.

“Stand still,” she whispers, inches away from Bellamy. Her slender hands reach out, take a lock of his curly hair between her fingers, drag the knife forward. Bellamy winces at the sound, but she draws away from him with a chunk of his dark hair in the palm of her hand, and he is unharmed.

With wide eyes, Bellamy watches as Echo returns to her spot at the head of the table, chanting under her breath. The air in the room starts to shimmer and writhe with something alive, and Bellamy holds his breath as Echo’s pupils blast wide until the entire eye is black. Whatever is in the air reflects in them eerily.

“Fuck,” Bellamy mutters, stepping backward. Next to him, Picasso whines, spins around once before shoving herself as close to Bellamy’s leg as she can. Roan just smiles, slipping his knife back into its sheath, standing back to watch the show.

Echo looks at him, he thinks. “You said they were lost around here?” she asks, voice rippling and distorted, sounding like many people speaking at once. It sends a shiver rolling through Bellamy’s entire body.

He blinks, forces himself to focus on where she points at the map, the patch of dry woods near the base of the mountain. He nods, swallows thickly.

She nods in response, turning to take a metal cup from the low table behind her, drinking deeply before setting it back down. Bellamy’s hair in a little pile in her hand, Echo leans across the map and blows gently, scattering the pieces. It spirals and swirls in the air, a little tornado hovering above the map before concentrating together in a tight spin, forming a dark little stone on the mountain labelled “Mount Weather.”

Echo gasps loudly and tips her head back, hands extended at her sides, fingers flexed and shaking. A whirring noise fills the tent and Bellamy whips his head around, searching frantically for the source of the swarming sound and finding nothing. At once, the noise and motion in the air cease, and Echo’s head snaps back down, eyes open and still dark black.

“I see through a girl’s eyes. Clarke,” Echo says with her many voices, holding her hand above the dot on the map. “There are others,” she continues, eyes searching. She frowns. “Young, some of them.”

Frantic, Bellamy nods, leaning even farther across the table. “Yes, that’s them. How many are there?”

Echo pauses to count. “I see thirty-five, not including Clarke.”

“ _No_ ,” Bellamy whispers, fists clenching tightly on the map. That means twelve of them are missing, or dead. Gone. Wherever they are, Clarke can’t see them. He takes a deep, slow breath. “What can you see? Are they safe?”

Like fog clearing, Echo’s eyes return to normal, and the last of the energy from before clears the tent. The rich brown of her irises seems even more infinite now, even more unknowable. Her mouth opens, to explain maybe, but she shuts it again, looking away.

“Damn it,” Roan mutters, stepping forward to join Bellamy and Echo at the map. “What a mess.”

“Please,” Bellamy begs, turning to Roan. Someone just tell him what is going on with his friends.

“Mount Weather is an underground society of vampires,” Roan says, sounding a little tired. “Which means your friends are in a pretty tight spot.”

Fuck. No, no, no. A choking sob rips out of Bellamy before he can stop it, and he clutches his hand to his chest, squeezing. Starving or being killed was one thing, but being held alive by a bunker full of vampires, fed on presumably until they die slowly and horribly? If those twelve kids are dead it is Bellamy’s fault. His failure, his weakness, his selfishness kept him from keeping them safe, and now they are being fed upon.

“Hey, hey, no,” Roan soothes, rushing to place his hand on Bellamy’s shoulder once more. “It’s okay. They’ve been fucking me on trades for months now, it’s about time I take ‘em out anyway. We’ll get your friends back.”

Bellamy watches the rest of the day from just behind himself and a little to the right. He knows Roan and Echo are talking, explaining things to him. If he tries, he can even understand what they’re saying, hears himself saying things back. The bus was headed in the right direction to be caught, either by one of Mount Weather’s traps or by those they send to the surface, and Echo beholding into Clarke and seeing what she saw was enough to confirm it.

There’s a plan. Gather the war party, prepare the fleet for an excursion. Roan and Echo place pieces on the map, talk with one another. Echo is convincing Roan not to come with them. Bellamy runs his fingers through Picasso’s fur over and over and over. A short girl with a tattooed face and a lumpy glove on one hand brings them some soup for dinner, at some point. Meat, for Picasso. The blinking indicator light flashing on the metal collar beneath her chin breaks Bellamy from this trance, just for a moment, and they lock eyes before she is gone again. Then, _he_ is gone again.

Bellamy doesn’t realize he and Echo are alone until she’s standing close to him, pulling his face into both of her hands and forcing him to look at her.

“Bellamy,” she says firmly, like it’s not the first time she said it in the past several seconds.

His eyes flutter closed. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, opening his eyes after a moment and desperately trying to make them focus.

Echo shakes her head and shushes him, brushes his hair from his forehead with tender hands. He catches her eye and they both startle, because that was so _intimate_.

“She was thinking of you,” Echo murmurs, stopping as she pulls her hands away to tug at where she cut some of his hair off. Comforting. “Clarke. The only way the spell can work is if the person you’re looking for is thinking of you right when I check. She was.”

Bellamy considers this. “Were they good or bad thoughts?”

Echo smiles, quirks her eyebrows together. “I don’t know, it doesn’t work that way. I seek the connection, I don’t get to interpret it.”

At least she’s alive, even if she’s sitting there hating him. Relief and grief, fear and hope, all swell inside him like a churning, storming ocean. He’s drowning in it. Impulsively, Bellamy nods and pulls Echo into his arms, holding her in a soft hug.

She freezes, then winds her arms around his middle, holds him back. It’s been so long since Bellamy has been touched this way, has touched this way. He wants to cry.

“Thank you,” he whispers to her, pulling her a bit closer. “Thank you for helping me.”

He can feel her smiling against his cheek. “You’re the one helping me,” she responds, cryptic. “But you’re welcome.”

They pull apart, and Bellamy looks around, processing the changes he was too out of it to notice earlier. It’s dark, and Roan is gone.

“Where did Roan go?”

Echo stoops to give Picasso some pets. “With Dakiva. They have to process the goods and prisoners Ontari and her war party brought back. Roan likes to do that himself.”

 _Prisoners_. Bellamy bristles. “ _Slaves_ ,” he asserts, voice harsh. No one here has said the word out loud to him yet.

Echo’s expression falters, and she nods, solemn. “Slaves,” she confirms.

The faster he and Echo can retrieve his friends from the Mountain and he can get the hell out of Azgeda, the better. Bellamy swallows. “The collars?” He thinks of that tattooed girl, of Hansel and those women.

Echo’s eyes close. “They’re perimeter bombs,” she whispers, drawing her hands away from Picasso, like she doesn’t deserve to touch her.

“Jesus,” Bellamy hisses, rubbing his hands down his face. Try to run from Roan and he will blow your fucking head off.

“It’s not safe to talk about here,” Echo says, tucking her hair behind her ear, checking over her shoulder. “But you and I will be on our way to Mount Weather tomorrow, and I can tell you more then. I promise.”

It’s this that makes Bellamy realize Echo needs him just as badly as he needs her. She follows Roan, but she also defies him in secret, protecting Murphy and undermining his control in open view of Bellamy. Seeking his help. How long has she been here, waiting for such an opportunity? Trying to engineer one herself? An outsider like Bellamy, one with power and influence over Roan, is probably just what she has been waiting for. He allows himself a moment to be grateful that the stranger was him, someone who also cares about Murphy, and not someone worse. Wouldn’t have been hard to find, out there.

“Okay,” Bellamy agrees.

The sun is setting earlier and earlier now, and finally the blazing summer is coming to an end. Echo walks him back to the palace once more under an inky black sky. Their hands hover in the air next to each other, and Picasso trails Echo with her tail swinging happily, brushing against her leg every now and then.

It’s peaceful, for a split second. Bellamy can return to himself, can think about how it might feel to take Echo’s hand in his, how her skin would feel against his own. They both have rough hands, from rough lives.

He is pulled from his reverie by the sound of shouting voices, loud enough they hear them from the bottom of the stairs. Bellamy looks at Echo, but she does not hesitate, charging up the stairs without waiting for him and drawing her sword. Scrambling to catch up, Bellamy follows her lead and pulls his hatchet from his belt, ready for anything.

Well, ready as he can be. When Echo bursts through the front doors, the scene is chaos. Roan and Ontari are screaming at each other from across the room, and Murphy is slumped over in his arms, eyelids droopy.

“-because you don’t want to do your fucking _job_!” Ontari is shouting, grabbing a coaster from the coffee table and chucking it at Roan.

He knocks the tile out of the air with his big hand, snarling. “Look at him, you fucking bitch!” Roan roars, hefting Murphy higher in his other arm. “You gave him way too fucking much! How many times do we have to have this conversation?”

Bellamy is rooted to the spot.

“Murphy!” Echo cries, throwing her sword down and surging forward to wind her arms under Murphy’s armpits and take him from Roan. He lets her, and pulls the hand that punched the tile to his chest, cradling it a little. It _sounded_ like it hurt.

“Oh, here we go again,” Ontari scoffs, throwing her hands in the air in disgust. “Such a production.”

“Shut your mouth!” Roan barks, jabbing his uninjured finger at her. “This is your god damn fault.”

Echo ignores them, lowering Murphy gently to the ground, cradling his head in her elbow like a baby. The lolling, sluggish way he moves, the awful look on his face, is almost too much for Bellamy to handle. Picasso whines behind him where he is still frozen in the doorway.

“Murphy? Murphy?” Echo is murmuring gently, patting his cheek, rocking back and forth a little to soothe him, his back resting in her lap. Bellamy wonders if she knows she’s doing it.

Murphy moans, low and weak, and something inside of Bellamy snaps.

Just as he moves to join Echo at Murphy’s side, Ontari growls and launches another coaster at the wall. Her face is scrunched up and bright red with fury, but tears are pooling in her eyes and she’s breathing heavily, nervous eyes trained on Murphy. She’s scared of how he looks. She knows she fucked up, but she can’t let Roan be right.

“I’m going for a drive,” she blurts, turning to hurry for the side door in the kitchen. Maybe it was just the light, but Bellamy swears he can see tears shining on her cheeks.

“Oh no, you’re not!” Roan says, charging after her, ducking when she throws something else from the kitchen at him. They tear out of the palace, shouting as they go, until Echo, Bellamy, and Murphy are alone.

Silence echoes through the cavernous house.

Bellamy shuts the door behind himself and Picasso to join Echo, falling to his knees and pulling Murphy’s hands into his lap. “Murphy?”

God, he looks awful. His eyelids hang heavy and uneven, and his mouth keeps falling open like he’s been slapped. At the sight of Bellamy, his eyes widen. His pupils are huge.

“Bellamy,” he slurs, tipping his head back onto Echo’s shoulder and sighing, a terrible, twisted smile on his face. Fat tears start to trickle down his cheeks. “You came back for me.”

Bellamy sucks in a breath, and he knows Echo is staring at him. Not quite strong enough to lift himself, Murphy flops his hands, trying to break Bellamy’s hold and reach for him. Panicking, he looks at Echo again, but she is simply watching them.

“Yeah,” he manages finally, catching Murphy’s hands and giving them a squeeze. “I did.”

“ _No_ , hold me,” Murphy begs, tugging his hands away.

Sighing, Bellamy carefully shifts Murphy from Echo’s lap into his, wraps his arms around him. Murphy buries his face into Bellamy’s neck, slings his weak arms around his shoulders and just hangs there, clinging to him. It's shocking how natural it is to hold Murphy, how right it feels to pull him a little closer, to brush his nose against the back of Murphy’s neck, just above the collar. They have never touched this way, before.

“Did you find the princess?” he mutters into the shell of Bellamy’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “You gonna rescue her?”

He shifts Murphy in his arms a little. “I’m gonna try,” he whispers back, rubbing his hand slowly down Murphy’s back.

Murphy starts to tremble in his arms, and Bellamy realizes his shaking is sobs. “Please, don’t,” he gasps, words running together and trailing off at random. “Don’t go, you can’t go get them. Don’t leave me here, don’t leave me alone with her, I can’t do it again…”

“Murphy,” he says softly, feeling utterly useless. Murphy goes totally limp in his arms, still whimpering quietly.

Echo leans forward, rests a kind hand on his shoulder. “Bellamy, I have to take him. He needs to detox,” she pauses, glances toward the kitchen. “And Roan can’t see you like this.”

 _You think Johnny is pretty too, don’t you?_ Roan’s words echo around in his head, haunting him. Yeah, no, that wouldn’t do. He cannot walk back in to Bellamy cradling Murphy like this, even though it will break his heart to let him go.

“Will he be okay?” he asks, rising to his feet and helping Murphy into Echo’s outstretched arms. He expects her to carry him bridal style, or maybe fireman, but she doesn’t, instead shifting him to wrap both his legs around her, supporting his weight by bracing her hips under his thighs. He looks so small and boyish, in her arms.

“Ontari hurts him, when Roan isn’t around,” Echo says, voice grave. Her eyes shine. “She messed up tonight by giving him enough drugs for Roan to notice, so we have a few days where he’ll keep Murphy safe.”

Bellamy swallows the bile rising in his throat. “And then?”

Echo’s eyelids flutter, but don’t close. “I don’t know,” she breathes, holding Murphy closer. “I don’t know how much more he can take.”

Okay. Bellamy nods, sniffs a little. “How long does it take to get to Mount Weather?”

Something in the air shifts when Echo looks at him. “We can make it there in a day, if leave early,” she answers, and Bellamy knows that this will be their plan before she’s even finished saying it. She does, too.

“We go to Mount Weather,” Bellamy says through his clenched jaw. “And then we come back for Murphy.”

Echo nods. They can talk about it more tomorrow, but they are agreed: Murphy can’t stay here any longer, and they are the only ones who can get him out.

Bellamy stays in his room, holding Picasso in his arms. He cries a little, but not for long. Mostly he just feels exhausted, numb. At some point, he hears the front door open, murmuring voices from down the hall. He wants to go see who it is, and if it’s Murphy, ask if he’s alright. But he’s afraid. Afraid of what he will see, afraid of what he will do when he sees it.

Will Ontari be there? She lives here, apparently.

After a while, he is too curious to stop himself for the third night in a row. Again, he can hear music when he opens his door, slips silently down the hall to see what he will see tonight.

Roan is sitting alone in the big purple recliner, a shiny gold revolver in his hand. The other is wrapped in a somewhat silly looking bandage, hanging limp in his lap. He stares at the gun, still as a statue. It doesn’t even look like he’s breathing, and Bellamy subconsciously holds his own breath. The seconds stretch on and on, agonizing.

After a deep inhale through his nose, Roan leans back in the chair, jams the gun under his chin, and pulls the trigger.

Bellamy flinches, but all that happens is a click. He made too much noise though, and Roan hears him, turning to look at him.

He smiles, waves at Bellamy, then turns back to face forward, propping his feet up on the table and sinking into the chair. The gun falls from his hand, clatters to the ground. Roan does not look at him again.

Bellamy goes to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Echo holding Murphy like a koala,,,, because I can,,,,
> 
> Also, I have a playlist for this fic, stream here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/52MfPvg7UOOZOaNSwms1p7?si=ljgH_oRySNi95LT0-BljCw


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I used to dream about you coming to rescue me all the time,” he whispers this non-answer, brows drawn together. When Bellamy runs his finger experimentally through Murphy’s hair, his blue eyes fly back open and a shaky breath leaves his mouth. “I used to dream about you being captured by Roan, too. Collared with a bomb like the other slaves.”  
> Bellamy swallows again, strokes his thumb over Murphy’s cheek softly. “Which one did you want more?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone for your patience, I am very relieved to get this latest chapter out to you all :) they keep getting longer.... and I'm just rolling with that, so thank you for rolling along with me!!! Hope everyone is staying healthy and safe, pls enjoy some more weird shit <3

When Bellamy opens his eyes to the cool light of morning illuminating the ceiling, he knows at once he is not alone in the room. Picasso is awake and alert at his feet, her tension sinking into the mattress beneath her. As soon as he moves to sit up, he notices the figure beside him and flinches to the other side of the bed.

“Murphy,” Bellamy murmurs, hand on his thundering heart. “What are you doing?”

He’s there, kneeling on the ground next to Bellamy’s night stand. Pale and glowing. There are deep shadows under his eyes, probably from the drugs and detox. “You’re really going to Mount Weather?” he whispers, eyebrows drawn together fiercely.

Bellamy wonders what Murphy knows, blinks the sleep out of his eyes and rubs his hand down his face. Roan mentioned trade: what kind of things would he be trading vampires for, anyway?

Vampire blood, obviously. Extremely addictive but also the sharpest high you’ve ever had. Highly prized in the wastes for its magical and medicinal properties. Sounds right up Roan and Azgeda’s alley. If Mount Weather is anything like the Ark, they might have desirable technology down there too. Bellamy remembers the awful bomb collars and their angry red lights. He’s never seen anything like them before.

After a moment, his gut twists at the memory of those red drinks Roan made for them that first night, the horrible visions that followed.

What is he walking into?

He swallows. “Yeah.”

Murphy nods, accepting this answer and thinking for a moment. “Can I get in?”

Bellamy knows without clarifying that Murphy is asking to get into bed with him. His heart leaps a little at the thought of Roan sleeping on the other side of the wall. A million different questions spring forth, but Bellamy shoos them away in favor of nodding, lifting the blanket wordlessly.

The bed isn’t enormous, but definitely enough room to accommodate two people comfortably. Murphy slithers under the covers, and though their knees knock together for a second, they do not touch. Picasso plants herself between their legs to wedge them apart anyway. Bellamy frowns.

When he looks back up, Murphy is staring at a small hole in the sheets, wearing at it with his fingers, unknowable to him once more. It used to be so easy, reading Murphy. He never needed to say anything, Bellamy could just look at him and see, know his thoughts without hearing a word. It makes sense he’d be guarded now. Changed. Bellamy used that knowledge to hurt Murphy, before.

Everything is a mystery. The gap of just a few inches between them on the bed feels at once like no distance at all and an impassable valley, a gorge carved so deep into the earth that there is no hope it could ever be bridged. To reach his hand across it and touch Murphy feels impossible until he does so, very slowly. Murphy’s eyes track his big hand in the dim light.

“When I come back from the mountain,” Bellamy begins, dragging his fingertips up and down Murphy’s side, a whisper of a touch, uncertain. “Will you leave with me?”

Murphy goes rigid beneath his fingers. This is a thought so forbidden that even hearing it spoken out loud makes his eyes whip around the room, paranoid at being overheard. Bellamy can feel it, how Murphy yearns to go. It was there that first night too, even though Murphy had denied it out loud to him.

Murphy nods, but tears shine in his eyes. “I’m scared.”

 _He didn’t say no_. Bellamy swallows, starts twirling his fingers in little spirals on Murphy’s arm, focusing on the way his pale skin reacts to the touch. He’s in another big t-shirt today. “What’s scaring you?”

They lock eyes, and Murphy leans almost imperceptibly closer. “I’m afraid he’ll catch us, and kill you,” he confesses, barely above a whisper. He doesn’t need to say Roan’s name. “I’m afraid he’ll come after us even if we do get away.”

Bellamy frowns. “No he won’t, I’ll kill him,” he says simply. It should be obvious.

“No!” Murphy responds just a bit too loud, shrinking at his own outburst. “No, you can’t,” he repeats, shaking his head dully.

“Murphy,” Bellamy growls, jaw clenching. He doesn’t understand, he has to remind himself. This is complicated. He exhales a slow breath through his nose. “I know you care about him, but Roan isn’t a good guy.”

“Shut up,” Murphy whispers, burying his face into the pillow, closer still to Bellamy. Try as he might to hide, Bellamy can see it: Murphy knows he’s right, and… Roan is all he has. It’s so much and so little, what he’s asking him to give up, because what comes next? Bellamy has no good answer. “You can’t kill him, okay? Promise me you won’t.”

“I… I don’t want to lie to you,” Bellamy says with a sigh, wanting with everything inside of him to pull Murphy into his arms. Has it always been this way? What swells inside his chest now is so powerful it extends beyond this moment, rewrites the past and defines every vision of the future. _You don’t need Roan anymore_ , he might say. _I want to keep you safe this time, I’m sorry for fucking it up so bad before_. He does not say this. “But I won’t go out of my way to kill him, alright?”

Murphy snorts. “Very reassuring. You’re an asshole, you know that?”

Bellamy can’t help but laugh, and then stinging tears prickle at his eyes, pooling there before he can blink them away. What if _this_ is how it could be, someday? Bellamy and Murphy in bed together, Picasso at their feet. At once, self-loathing washes over him in a dark wave for a thought so selfish and stupid. He doesn’t get to imagine the future past his journey to Mount Weather or else he’s getting way too far ahead of himself. Picasso doesn’t even like Murphy.

Bellamy finds the courage to ask the question burning him up inside. “What are you doing here?”

Murphy lifts his face from the pillow, peers at him from over his own shoulder. “What do you mean?”

Bellamy gives him a look, because Murphy knows. He knows the question exactly: what are you doing here in my bed? What are you doing here, right now, under these covers with me? _What are we doing?_

Murphy sighs, lifts Bellamy’s hand where it has fallen to the sheets between them and places it on his pale cheek. His eyelids flutter closed.

“I used to dream about you coming to rescue me all the time,” he whispers this non-answer, brows drawn together. When Bellamy runs his finger experimentally through Murphy’s hair, his blue eyes fly back open and a shaky breath leaves his mouth. “I used to dream about you being captured by Roan, too. Collared with a bomb like the other slaves.”

Bellamy swallows again, strokes his thumb over Murphy’s cheek softly. “Which one did you want more?”

Murphy shakes his head, smiles mournfully. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, a strange tone coloring his voice. “It happened like this.”

Hm. Bellamy considers this and smiles, a little nonsensically. Some part of Murphy wanted to see him suffer, be humbled by some violence on _his_ throat, and another equally powerful part just wanted to see him again, still thought of Bellamy as a rescuer. Still could, if he does everything right. _It happened like this_. Just as he tucks the words away in his heart for later, Murphy’s expression sharpens into something severe.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t fuck around, Bellamy,” Murphy mutters, voice quiet and hard. “You say you’re going to get Clarke, and everyone else, and come back for me. What makes you think they’ll let you? Why should any of them give a shit about me?”

Oh, so that’s why he’s here. Something about that makes Bellamy want to shout. He really thinks Clarke could convince Bellamy to leave him behind? Maybe he needs to stop being surprised by that, by Murphy anticipating everyone rejecting him and abandoning him. Clarke was never Murphy’s greatest fan, and her actions led to his hanging just as much as Bellamy’s. At least Roan won’t cast him out. Being kept out of the wastes was worth being in danger, worth being _hurt_ , to Murphy, because whatever happened to him in the desert was worse.

God, it makes his gut twist.

“Hey,” Bellamy furrows his brow, reaches for Murphy’s hands to take them both in his own. Gives his fingers a squeeze. “I won’t leave here without you.”

Murphy’s lip wobbles, but his expression holds. “You are, though.”

Bellamy closes his eyes. “I, yeah. I know,” he sighs, gritting his teeth in frustration. “But I am _going_ to come back. I am.”

“Not good enough, just saying it,” Murphy shakes his head, blinking fast. “That’s not fucking good enough.”

Anger swells in Bellamy, because he’s right. Nothing he has done here so far would be enough to convince Murphy to trust him, not after what he did to him. There has to be something more.

“Take Picasso,” Bellamy blurts impulsively, shocking himself by saying it aloud.

A loud silence follows.

Murphy stares at him, breathless. “What did you just say?”

“Take Picasso,” Bellamy repeats himself, shifting to rest on his elbow in the bed when Murphy scoffs. He tries to focus on Murphy’s hands in his, ignore how his entire body is vibrating with fear. “I’m serious. You can keep her here in Azgeda for me while Echo and I are gone,” he pauses, fighting his tears again. “She’s all I have.”

This _is_ all he has, all he can do to show Murphy he’s serious about coming back for him. Right away he wants to take it back, change his mind and keep Picasso with him, but this is about trust. Sacrifice. He’ll cope with the frenzied panic being apart from her alights in him if it means Murphy feels secure that Bellamy really will come back.

Murphy pulls away from him, shaking his head at the gravity of this suggestion. “Bellamy, I don’t—”

“Please,” Bellamy whispers, squeezing his eyes shut for a second and gripping Murphy tighter. “ _Please_ , let me do this.”

“I—” Murphy starts, then stops, still bewildered. “She doesn’t even like me?”

Bellamy makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Then it’ll be a great opportunity for you to get to know each other better.”

Loaded, what he just said. Murphy pulls this sweet smile, stares at their entwined hands in front of him on the sheets and shakes his head again, scoffing softly. “Fuck,” he croaks, pulling his hands from Bellamy’s to cover his face.

Seizing that same impulsive mania that made him offer up Picasso, Bellamy settles his now free right hand on Murphy’s shoulder, pulling him forward gently in a silent question. There’s a taut, charged moment where it seems that neither of them move or even breathe, so long he almost pulls away. But Murphy’s hands fall away from his eyes and he nods, snaking his arms around Bellamy’s neck and allowing himself to be drawn into his embrace.

 _Yes_. Bellamy sighs, low and satisfied, wraps his left arm around Murphy’s waist and pulls them in close together, winding his other hand into his messy hair. This disturbs Picasso, who huffs and squirms out from between their legs, hopping off the bed to settle atop Bellamy’s backpack on the ground. Their legs come together, tangle up in each other.

Fuck, this feels so good. They’ve never even hugged before this, but holding each other this way is natural and _right_. Bellamy never wants to let go, but like always, their time is limited. The further the sun inches out from where it hides beyond the horizon, the sooner Echo will arrive at the palace, this time to take Bellamy away from Murphy. Murphy knows they don’t have long too; they only stay like this for a minute or so before he pulls away.

“I can’t stay,” he whispers. “Roan knows you’re leaving today, he’s going to want to send off the war party.”

“It’s okay,” Bellamy assures him, rubbing his broad hand down Murphy’s back. “I have to get up, too. Echo told me to be ready early.”

Murphy nods, and after a beat of hesitation, slips out from his arms and the covers, away from Bellamy. Terrible. It’s cold immediately, where he used to be.

Picasso rises to her feet too, coming to stand at the foot of the bed, staring at Murphy.

He kneels in front of her slowly. “Hey girl,” he murmurs, holding his hand out for her to smell. “You wanna be my friend?”

Bellamy rises up in bed, because Picasso looks tense. She surprises him by sniffing at Murphy’s palm for several long seconds, then licking him once before sitting down, relaxed.

“Looks like a good start,” Bellamy says, smirking just a little.

When Murphy looks up at him, his face is carefully neutral. Doesn’t silence what sings between them, can’t disguise how much things have just changed. “Yeah.”

He leaves the room, and Picasso and Bellamy both watch him quietly as he goes.

When Bellamy and Picasso leave the guest room, they find Murphy sitting alone at the bar once more, though there is the sound of someone in the kitchen. He turns as they approach, and smiles. It’s small, but real, and Bellamy returns it shyly. He remembers the key in his pocket, remembers inspecting Murphy's collar yesterday morning. If only he could just do it _now_.

There’s a clatter from the kitchen, and someone swearing. Bellamy peers through the living room, leaning to try and see more than the dark cabinets, but just as he does the tattooed girl from the war tent appears in the doorway, two steaming plates in her hands. She startles at the sight of him, but recovers with a smile surprising in its loveliness.

“Hello,” she says with a little bow, crossing the room to join them by the bar. “You’re Bellamy?”

She’s short, but there’s a sort of wiry strength in her frame, a scrappiness that shines through even with that collar around her neck, the plates in her hands. It looks to Bellamy like she’d just as soon chuck one of those at his head as hand it to him, if she could.

“Um, yeah,” Bellamy confirms, moving to twist the strap of his rifle in his hand nervously.

She nods, setting one of the plates down on the bar. “That’s for you, then. You’ll need strength for your journey.”

Bellamy sits at the stool in front of the plate and picks up the fork resting atop it. Eggs, bacon, seasoned potatoes. His stomach growls, and he’s so viciously hungry at once that he says nothing, just starts shoveling the food into his mouth. Fuck, it’s delicious. He’s missed real food _so_ bad.

Murphy snorts, mercifully turning away before he sees how it makes Bellamy blush. “Does this mean you’re taking me this morning, instead of Echo?”

Bellamy peeks over his shoulder as he eats to watch the girl nod, hopping up onto the stool between himself and Murphy at setting the other plate at the far end of the bar. So, it’s not for Murphy then. Again. Her left hand is still covered in that lumpy mitten from before, and Bellamy is still hypnotized by that red light blinking beneath her chin. He struggles to swallow this bite, because there’s a _bomb_ sitting between them.

Murphy hums in response, leaning back onto his elbow on the bar and looking at the dog by Bellamy’s feet. “Picasso, have you met Emori?” he asks, conversational, as if she can answer him.

Emori’s smile is smaller this time, though just as pretty, and she leans over, holding her ungloved hand out tentatively. “Oh my goodness! Hello,” she gasps, releasing a bubbling laugh when Picasso gives her fingers a sloppy kiss. “Oh!”

Bellamy smiles. “That means she likes you.”

Emori pets the top of Picasso’s head reverently. “She’s so gentle,” she murmurs, dark eyes sparkling with wonder. It occurs to Bellamy then that a sweet dog like Picasso is probably rare out in the wastes. Who knows what sort of life Emori has led up until this point? He still doesn’t know where Picasso even came from, but it’s evident that her situation is probably much like his; she came from somewhere sheltered from the brutality of the wild desert, and got lost, just like Bellamy.

When he looks at Murphy, he finds him gazing at Emori with a fondness so obvious and vulnerable it takes his breath away for a second.

Bellamy squeezes his eyes shut and turns back to his breakfast, feeling like he’s witnessing something private.

“She’s a good girl,” he agrees at last, scraping the last of the yolk up with his potatoes, blinking fast.

“Oh good, the mutant’s here.”

All three of them sitting at the bar jump, spinning to see Roan leaning against his doorframe like a lazy lion, smirk on his lips. As per always, his chest is bare, big fucking knife strapped to his belt.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bellamy watches Emori duck her head and shrink physically, retracting her arms away from Picasso like she’s been shocked. The quick flare of Murphy’s nostrils is the only indication he gives of his displeasure, but Bellamy can tell he doesn’t like what Roan just said.

Ambivalent to their silence, Roan’s sharp eyes flick to the breakfast sitting on the counter next to Murphy and he shoves himself forward to retrieve it, rubbing his hands together.

“Ooh, yes,” he says, grabbing the plate and shoving some eggs into his mouth. His knuckles are swollen and bruised deep purple from Ontari throwing the coaster at him last night. “God, none of the other morons around here make the eggs like you, mutant.”

Murphy’s pale hand juts out to rest on Roan’s shoulder, making him pause. Bellamy holds his breath, feels Emori do the same next to him.

“Daddy, you know I hate that word,” he says softly, leaning forward to sprinkle little kisses on the skin of Roan’s bare arm, appeasing.

The king sighs, rests his fork down on the plate and stares at Murphy, expression unreadable. Bellamy wants to close his eyes again, so sure he’d otherwise have to watch Roan hit Murphy or something, but that’s not what happens. Instead, when Roan lifts his big hand, he rests it gently against Murphy’s cheek.

“You’re such a sweet boy,” he mutters, a smile creeping across his face. “So sensitive.”

Murphy nods eagerly, turning to press a kiss into Roan’s palm. Bellamy exhales through his nose and fights with everything inside of him not to roll his eyes, calming his anger by taking it apart. It’s fine. He’s just doing it so Roan doesn’t lash out. Tomorrow night, Murphy will be leaving this place for good.

Picasso barks and rushes over to the front doors, tail wagging, moments before they swing open and Echo steps into the palace. Today, her hair is pulled away from her face in neat, utilitarian braids, dark war paint smeared around her eyes making her brown irises shine eerily. She greets Picasso with a ruffle of her ears, then does the same forehead-chest salute from last night, bowing.

“My king,” she greets Roan first, rising to smile at the rest of them, eyes lingering on Emori. “Isn’t this quite the crowd?”

“Too many fuckin’ people in my house,” Roan grumbles around his breakfast, but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, so it doesn’t seem like he’s serious. Bellamy can’t get a read on him no matter how hard he tries. Roan has a strange sense of humor.

“Well, luckily for you, I came to get this one,” Echo replies, placing her hand on Bellamy’s shoulder, leaning into him a little. His pulse leaps at her proximity, at the scent of roses in her hair. “And this pretty lady,” she coos at Picasso, giving her a nice scratch under the chin.

“Actually,” Bellamy blurts, shifting a bit to face everyone. “I was thinking it might be safer to leave her here. If that’s alright with you, I mean,” he amends immediately, looking at Roan.

Roan beams, setting his now empty plate on the bar behind him. “I’d like that,” he says with a still mostly full mouth. “You like the dog, don’t you, Johnny?”

Murphy’s eyes flicker to Picasso, then to Bellamy, before he nods at Roan. “She can stay can’t she? It’s just for one night.”

Roan smiles and swallows his food, pulling Murphy into his arms. “Anything you want,” he says, kissing the top of his head noisily.

“Maybe after breakfast you and Emori can take her to play some fetch in the fighting pit,” Echo suggests with a lightness of tone that seems odd paired with the words ‘fighting pit,’ but Picasso perks up at the word ‘fetch,’ wagging her tail so hard she almost falls over. Emori and Echo laugh, brightening the whole room, before Roan pulls away from Murphy and clears his throat.

“Aren’t you two wasting daylight?” he asks Echo, suddenly much less friendly. “If you want to make it there today, anyway.”

The smile slips away from Echo’s face at once, and she nods, turning to Bellamy once more, hand still on his shoulder. “You ready then?”

Bellamy turns back to look at Murphy. He wants to ask what he’s going to do while they’re gone, wants to tell him they’ll be back soon and to just hold on a little bit longer. He can’t say any of it.

Instead, he slides down from the stool and crouches in front of Picasso, kissing the soft crown of her head over and over. “Be a good girl,” he whispers into her ear. “Keep Murphy safe.”

He rises again and heads for the front door. Behind him, he hears Roan kiss Murphy again and rumble something unintelligible in his low voice before he saunters over to the front doors as well, pushing ahead to lead them down the stairs. Ah, that’s right, Bellamy almost forgot: Roan wants to ‘send them off,’ whatever that means. He sighs and steels himself for more quality time with the king, trying to ground himself in Echo’s calming presence next to him. It’s already hard, not having Picasso’s soft fur to bury his fingers in during times like this.

Like she senses this, Echo looks at him, then reaches out and takes his hand, giving it a quick squeeze while Roan can’t see. No hesitation, this time. Bellamy smiles and nods at her in return, holding her gaze for a moment. They’re coming to know each other’s languages now. He knows they’ll talk about this later, about everything, as soon as they’re on the road. For now, she’s sorry he has to leave Picasso behind.

They cross through Azgeda, the people bowing to Roan as they pass even though he hasn’t donned his special armor this morning. Finally, they come upon a long, open building with rows and rows of motorbikes lined up, some larger vehicles scattered between. A somewhat rowdy crowd of Azgeda scouts and riders are milling about, waiting for Echo and Bellamy, he has to assume. Nodding toward a large vehicle with two seats in an enclosed cab and benches lining the back, Echo leads Bellamy through the crowd while Roan splits off, climbing atop one of the cars at the front of the row and facing the murmuring crowd.

“What’s going on?” Bellamy whispers to Echo, who just smirks.

“He’s sending off the war party,” Echo replies, clarifying nothing. When he frowns at this, she winks at him. Cheeky. “Just watch,” she insists.

“My warriors!” Roan bellows, holding out his balled fists above the people below. They cry out in response, arms raised to mirror their king, twisting their wrists in a revving motion. Roan holds out flat palms, and they calm themselves. “I send you out into the wastes on this day once more. I don’t ask this of you lightly. Azgeda is lucky for your bravery.”

Bellamy can’t lie, he’s a little impressed. The warriors are all eyes on Roan, hanging onto his every word reverently, clamoring over each other to get closer to him.

“But the rotten bloodsuckers in the mountain have been allowed to run free out there for too long!” The crowd cheers. Roan waits for them to quiet before he continues. “I’m sick and tired of it, personally. I’m sick of taking their shitty deals to get what I want, what _we_ want. It’s about time a people who are _worthy_ get what we want!”

Roan continues, and the warriors below him roar once more, throwing their arms up to him, reaching. “You are worthy! This world belongs to you! Will you not take what is yours?”

Like an ocean below him, the crowd sways, stretching to meet him, crying out at his provocations. Ready for blood.

Chest heaving with the energy of the people below and from his shouting, Roan steps back, brushing his long hair from his face and finding Echo in the crowd with his eyes. As he does, the crowd follows his gaze, turning to look at her too and falling silent, waiting. Sucking in a deep breath through her nose, Echo takes on a grim, otherworldly expression, climbing the side of her big vehicle to be seen by more of the crowd.

She props herself up, then raises both her fists as Roan had before. “ _Gon Azgeda_!” she shouts, sustaining the last syllable until the rest of the crowd mimics her, repeating the phrase until they all cry together with one tremulous voice.

Bellamy shrinks into the metal of the vehicle, overwhelmed. He thinks about trying to open the door and get inside, just to get away from the crowd, but someone grabs onto him and gives him a shake, urging him to shout too. When he looks up at Echo, she is smiling through her war cry and lifts her fists higher, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

Fuck it.

“ _Gon Azgeda_!” Bellamy whoops along without understanding, throwing his arms in the air and allowing himself to be swept up in the powerful energy swelling around them. Everyone immediately around him loses it at his joining in, excited by this outside warrior joining in their ritual, and Roan tips his head back to laugh. Fear alights in Bellamy at how easy that was, how good it felt.

At the flourish of both of his arms waving them toward the bikes, the king dismisses them, and the warriors scatter, rushing to mount their motorcycles or climb into their trucks.

“Get in,” Echo instructs Bellamy over the din, opening her door and slipping into the cab of her truck as warriors pile into the back.

He follows her instructions, sliding into the seat next to her and turning to glance through the little window at the fighters in the back.

“Don’t worry,” Echo says, starting the engine and shifting into drive. “They won’t be able to hear us in here.”

“These people all follow you?” Bellamy asks, unable to keep the wonder from creeping into his voice.

Echo’s jaw clenches, but she nods. “Most of them. Some are Roan’s, or Ontari’s. Tybe.”

Bellamy nods, trying to think of what he’s actually trying to say. “They like you best, though.”

Echo ducks her head trying to hide her smile, but Bellamy sees it anyway. “Probably,” she admits, pulling the truck forward and toward the massive scrap gates at the end of the yard. As they approach, dozens of people rush to pull at the gates, red collar lights blinking against the metal.

“But not too much,” Bellamy continues, looking out the window as they pass, spotting Hansel among the slaves at the gate. “Or Roan would feel threatened.”

When he looks at Echo again, her mouth is parted, eyes widened subtly in surprise. “Pretty much,” she says, shifting in her seat and peeking at the small mirror pointing into the back. “He likes me too, though, which helps.”

Bellamy nods. That much is obvious. Echo has made herself essential to Roan extremely successfully.

“Were you born here?” Bellamy asks, leaning back into his seat a bit more. Maybe he should be more concerned with the plan for Murphy, but they have hours to go yet, and plenty of time. He’s curious about Echo.

Her expression goes stony, and she shakes her head on a rigid neck. “No. I was stolen as a child in one of Nia’s war parties,” she says, voice flat. “Sixteen years ago. The place I was born is gone.”

“Oh,” Bellamy replies softly, not really sure of what to say.

“I was a witch. I knew how to fight, and shoot,” Echo continues, eyes focused on the desert in front of them. It seems endless. “Nia took a liking to me, and then Roan. I’ve worked my way up through Azgeda’s military ranks for the past seven years.”

It’s obviously hard to talk about. Her subtle subversion of Roan makes a lot more sense, now, as does her sensitivity for Murphy. A powerful feeling swells in Bellamy’s chest that makes him want to reach over and touch her, but he stifles it, squeezing his hands together in his lap instead.

“Fuck,” he concludes after a beat, looking at her. “He’ll never suspect you.”

Echo catches his eye, a slow smile growing on her face. “He’ll _never_ suspect me.”

Tears sting at Bellamy’s eyes once more, and he suppresses a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose to catch them before they fall. Damn it. He is so fucking lucky it’s insane. What if he had to try and rescue Murphy himself? He would be absolutely fucked. Roan would definitely have to die in that scenario, no question.

The thought inspires another question. “Do you want to kill him?”

Echo sucks in a deep breath through her nose, exhales it slowly. “Yes, but that won’t be enough.”

Bellamy frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Nia died, too,” Echo says, hands gripping tight to the steering wheel. “Nothing changed. Got worse, maybe, since Roan has never been good at controlling Ontari. If we kill Roan, she would simply take his place, and another to replace her.”

“Oh, shit,” Bellamy breathes, because he only just now understands that they’re not on a rescue mission at all. Getting Murphy out of there is only one small part of a much larger cause, one that Echo has been carefully working toward for the majority of her life. “So then, what _is_ the plan for when we get back?”

Smiling still, Echo shakes her head again. “Better for you not to know details, just in case. I have specific instructions for you, though, if you want them now.”

Bellamy quirks a brow. “Specific instructions?”

“Your job is to get in, grab Murphy, and get out,” Echo explains, flipping a switch on the dash and propping her left leg up on the seat, digging in her pocket. “Emori is going to move Roan’s dune crawler outside the gates for you, and then you drive until you get here and you don’t stop for any reason.”

She retrieves a piece of paper, tightly folded. Another map. Bellamy takes it, starts unfolding it before one of Echo’s hands clamps over his, stopping him.

“Don’t look at it yet,” she insists. “Wait until we get back, and be ready to destroy it if you have to.”

Bellamy hums, tucking the map into the pocket of his rifle strap. “What about you? You’re coming with us, aren’t you?”

Echo nods. “I want to,” she says, voice soft. “I’m going to try to.”

Not exactly what he wanted to hear, but he says nothing, accepting this answer in silence. Just like much of this is out of his control, Echo is dealing with factors outside of her control, too. He understands not wanting to make a promise she can’t keep.

“Alright,” Bellamy sighs, shifting in his seat again. It’s pretty comfy up here, really. “Tell me more about Mount Weather then, while we’re on the way.”

Echo scowls a little. “Vampires, way too old to survive the surface for long. They claim to have been around since The Fall, and they certainly dress like it. Azgeda’s relationship with them has grown a lot since Roan came to power, because he’s addicted to vampire blood.”

Bellamy balks at how frank Echo is. “Really?”

Echo laughs. “What, that surprises you? You’ve seen how he lives.”

“I, no, I guess it doesn’t,” Bellamy admits, staring down at his hands again. He frowns. “Would he have… mixed me a drink with some in it, without telling me?”

“Sounds probably right,” Echo replies, tired. “Sorry.”

Bellamy sniffs. “Yeah,” he croaks, trying to force the memories of the horrible sex dream he had about Murphy from his mind.

“It wasn’t Murphy’s, if that makes you feel any better,” Echo adds, shooting him a knowing glance.

Whatever she knows, he doesn’t. Bellamy furrows his brow. “What?”

Echo blinks. “The blood. It wasn’t Murphy’s, or at least probably not, not if it was behind the bar.”

A sharp ringing in his ears drowns out the end of her sentence, and Bellamy presses his palms flat to his temples. “No, no, stop,” he groans. His head hurts, he doesn’t understand. “How does that…? Why- why would the blood be Murphy’s?”

What she is saying doesn’t make any sense. More memories come, and this time he is powerless to silence them; Roan above Murphy on the couch, his mouth dripping red. How Murphy never eats anything. Picasso’s attitude around him.

“Oh, no,” Echo mutters quietly, letting her eyes slip closed for a second. “Bellamy, I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”

“Knew _what_?” Bellamy shouts, surprising himself. He’s gasping, he can’t breathe, fucking god, he’s dying. There is one answer to his question, and he knows it before Echo even opens her mouth.

“Murphy is a vampire,” she says solemnly, face and voice soft. “He has been the entire time I’ve known him.”

Bellamy sucks in a breath, suspends it in his lungs.

“Oh,” Bellamy whispers. His eyes are open, but he can’t see anything, his head is vibrating.

Echo looks at him, leans forward a bit to see his face. “Are you gonna throw up?”

Bellamy groans, and she leans across him to crank the window down just fast enough for him to stick his torso outside and vomit up his breakfast into the sand racing beneath them.

No, no, no. Bellamy is spiraling. If Murphy is a vampire, and Echo has only ever known him as a vampire, then he didn’t tell Bellamy the whole truth about what happened while he was banished. Somewhere in everything that happened to him, Murphy was infected by a vampire.

 _I got really sick_ , he had said on his walk with Bellamy. _He saved my life, what there was of it to save_.

“Oh, _no_ ,” Bellamy moans, heaving again though his stomach is empty, tears running down his cheeks. Roan didn’t save Murphy’s life out of the kindness of his heart, because he found a sick young man in the desert and took pity on him. No, Murphy was infected and Roan saved him so he would have a continuous source of vampire blood, right there next to him at all times, no trading with the Mountain necessary. In a sweet little collar and panties, too. Sick fucking bastard.

No wonder he doesn’t care about destroying Mount Weather, even though he’s addicted. Bellamy spits, furious, and the scout closest to him in the back of the truck reaches over to clap him on the back, hard enough that he splutters a little. He nods weakly in thanks.

“You okay?” Echo asks, voiced raised so he can hear her over the whipping wind.

Bellamy pulls back inside, cranks the window up with a shaking hand. “Why didn’t he tell me?” he pants, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Another tear slips down his cheek before he can stop it. “ _Fuck_ , Murphy.”

“Probably because you did that,” Echo says, voice sympathetic as she gestures to the window. “And… now you’re doing this. No offense.”

Bellamy sniffs. “Fair enough,” he responds, curling into himself and holding his quaking stomach. He still feels disgusting inside, but there’s nothing left to expel, so he just sits there twisting around in agony.

“Fuck, I’m really sorry,” Echo groans, bumping her head lightly on the steering wheel and reaching over to rest one hand on Bellamy’s knee. “I wish we weren’t driving. I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Bellamy sighs, closing his eyes and resting one sweaty hand atop hers. “I know you didn’t, it’s okay.” He doesn’t really know what she was going to say, how that sentence might actually end, but it doesn’t really matter either, because he forgives her for all of it. This is just disgusting, and if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s Bellamy’s.

Echo’s eyes are back on the horizon, but she gives his knee a squeeze. “What do you need?”

A sob slips out of him as he clears his throat to cover it, brushing his hand down his face. God, what _does_ he need? He doesn’t know, couldn’t begin to verbalize it even if he did. What he _wants_ is Murphy, or Picasso, or both. He wants to be held.

Silently, he grips Echo’s hand and twists it in his own so he can twine their fingers together, holding her tightly. Echo gives him another squeeze, keeps holding his hand as she drives. Bellamy lets his eyes slide closed, lets himself lose track of everything but their skin touching, their calloused fingers folding over each other. Softly, she runs her thumb across the back of his hand in slow, sweet circles.

They don’t speak again until they need to stop for their first refuel.

“It’s probably easiest if you stay inside,” Echo informs him, releasing his hand and checking her rearview mirror as she slows, watching a vehicle with a large tank of fuel on the back pull up and rumble to a stop next to her. Warriors are already hopping off the back of their own truck, and many of the bikes have stopped. Their riders rush to the spout with containers of various kinds. Bellamy shifts to rest his arms on the back of the wide seat of the truck, watching them out the back window. It’s fascinating, how efficiently they move. As he scans the smudged, painted faces of Roan’s warriors, he wonders how many of them are like Echo, stolen from another life and forced into this one, and how many have never known anything else.

They push on, driving through the day and stopping periodically for fuel and food. Bellamy doesn’t feel present throughout most of it. He’s thinking of Picasso and Murphy, back in Azgeda. The key burns against his thigh in his pocket again. Man, Bellamy basically stuck his throat in Murphy's face yesterday when he checked his collar. That was _so fucking dangerous_. A million moments replay in his head, taking on new meaning. He’s looking at the desert passing beneath them. For a while, a bird flies above them. Once, when they stop, he thinks some of the warriors might be making fun of him in another language for sitting inside and not helping, until Echo comes over and shoos them away with a shout, speaking the same.

When she gets back in the truck, he asks her about it.

“What language is that?”

Echo smirks at him. “You don’t want to know what they said?”  
He shrugs. “I kinda feel like I don’t.”

She laughs, pretty. “It’s Trigedasleng,” she explains, starting the engine and setting off once more. “Lots of the riders speak it. Their people developed it as a code language,” she pauses, quirking an eyebrow at him. “Against Mount Weather.”

“No shit,” Bellamy huffs, scratching his head. So, that’s more of this unraveled; ‘lots’ of the riders are stolen, and they’ve been terrorized before by Mount Weather. Roan played on their desire for personal revenge to get what he wanted from them. That’s how he does this. How can someone be such an idiot, but so _smart_ , so manipulative?

“We’ll be in Trikru territory shortly, actually,” Echo continues, nodding her chin to the sparse line of fir trees beginning to dot the horizon, stretching up and into the foothills. Bellamy’s gut twists, because it looks too much like where he and Finn got separated from the bus.

“They’re here,” he murmurs, half to himself, staring hypnotized at the horizon. The desert sky is glowing pink with the sunset, sparse stars beginning to dot the sky. “I can feel it.”

“We have to stop near the base before nightfall.”

Bellamy frowns. “What? Why?”

Echo looks at him. “You want to attack the coven of vampires at night?”

“Okay,” Bellamy sighs. “I’m stupid.”

She snorts and shakes her head at him. “You’re not stupid, you just don’t know anything.”

Bellamy furrows his brows, but that makes him smile, he can’t help himself. Ah, of course. That makes him feel so much better. It’s such an _Echo_ thing to say, which is a bizarre feeling to have about someone he still knows virtually nothing about.

 _That isn’t true_ , he immediately corrects himself. There probably isn’t a warrior present who knows what he knows about her life, though he can’t quite pin down exactly what gives him that impression. It was just… the quality of her face and voice as she said it, how she waited until they were alone in the cab of her truck to reveal these things to him. How much trust she’s placing in him.

The war party stop to make camp as the sun is vanishing into a thin sliver behind the foothills, starting fires and setting up their tents with the same frenzied efficiency as their fueling. Bellamy wonders how the Trikru riders are feeling, back in their real home the night before ambushing a great enemy.

He watches Echo prepare some simple stew for them over the fire, helps her set up the tent they will share tonight. Something nervous flutters in his chest about that, but not in a bad way. She does more magic too, chanting under her breath and pacing around their camp, maybe warding against the vampires. The rest of the riders seem to keep their distance, only approaching Echo to ask her questions in hushed tones, sometimes in that other language.

“How’s your stomach?” Echo asks him as she presses a wooden bowl into his hands, stew and a spoon inside. He wasn’t paying attention, again.

Bellamy smells his dinner, groans. “Hungry,” he says, scooping the still-steaming soup into his mouth. It’s way too hot, but he doesn’t care, sucking in air to cool it in his mouth and swallowing it down even as it sears his throat. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad you found your appetite,” Echo replies, blowing on her own spoonful with pursed lips before putting it in her mouth. Her brown eyes glow from the embers.

The fluttering in his chest picks up, even as he tries to swallow it down with the rest of his dinner. Bellamy feels warm, and it isn’t from the dying fire.

Echo sets aside her bowl. “Are you tired?” she murmurs, reaching to take his now empty dish as well. Their fingers touch as she does.

Bellamy shakes his head, clears his throat. “Not really.”

Echo nods, stowing the dishes back in her bag and rising to her feet, eyes still on him. “I’m going back to the tent. Are you coming?”

Bellamy’s brows come together. “I just said I’m not—”

The expression on her face silences him at once, and he takes a deep breath. She’s not asking him to go to sleep.

Slowly, Bellamy rises to his feet. Echo steps closer to him, so close he can feel the warmth of her skin in the cool desert air between them. _Really, this?_ He can’t help but feel a little surprised, a little unsure, even as she steps even closer, presses their bodies together.

“I won’t be offended,” she whispers against his lips, resting her hands lightly upon his chest. “If you and Murphy—”

Bellamy shakes his head, jaw clenched. “It’s not like that between us,” he grits out, blinking fast, ignoring how obvious his pain must be if she’s figured him out so easily. Roan figured him out too, or at least got suspicious enough to go on a bender about it. Good thing Roan is a fucking idiot.

Echo’s eyes search his, shoot down to look at his mouth. “Then take me back to the tent,” she commands, voice low. Lifting one hand from his chest, she brushes the hair from his eyes.

He slides his own hands to the small of her back, then down to cup her ass, pulling her close. When Echo gasps, he kisses her parted lips, feeling her smile into his mouth.

She and Roan are right about his feelings for Murphy, of course, and Bellamy thinks she probably knows that. This isn’t about Murphy now, though, that much is clear. This is between him and Echo, and he _does_ want her. He likes her, and he’s extremely attracted to her, there’s no point in denying it. Echo is a beautiful woman.

It’s probably not often that others are allowed to see her that way, it occurs to him as he lifts her into his arms, kissing down her neck. He lowers her to the ground in front of the tent, kicking off his boots and following her inside, helping her out of her clothes while she returns the favor. Bellamy continues kissing her neck as she straddles him until he freezes, too focused on her pulse point under his lips and the calming warmth of her blood not to think about Murphy again.

“Hey,” Echo whispers, cupping his face in her hands. “I’m right here.”

Bellamy kisses her again, soft. “I’m sorry,” he breathes in reply. He’s always sorry.

“Shh,” she quiets him, brushing her fingers through his hair again. “You’re okay.”

She repeats this to him, whispering it between their lips meeting again and again, their skin meeting again and again. Even when she stops saying it, when she can’t anymore because her breath is coming too fast, Bellamy can feel her telling him anyway in the points of contact between them, the way her fingers tangle in his hair and scratch at his chest.

And he is okay. Can be, in these moments with Echo, anyway. Bellamy gets the best rest he has in months that night, with Echo pressing her cheek into his back, holding him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. Lots of big reveals this chap, lots of answers to some pressing questions, and also some sweet sweet little spoon Bellamy. As always I'd love to hear your thoughts in a comment, thank you for reading!


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